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THE    DIVERSIONS 
OF     A     BOOK-LOVER 

by 
ADRIAN     H.    JOLINE 

AUTHOR    OF 
"  MBDITATIONS  OF  AN  AUTOGRAPH  COLLECTOR  " 


"Now  Iiavi7ig  made  thee,  seelie  book. 
And  brought  thee  to  this  frame. 
Full  loath  am  I  to  publish  thee 
Lest  thou  impair  my  ?iame." 
-Philip  Stubbes,  "  The  Anatomie  of  Abuses,"  1583 


NEW  YORK   AND   LONDON 
HARPER    &    BROTHERS 

PUBLISHERS     1903 


Copyright,  1903,  by  Harpkr  &  Bkothers. 

Alt  rights  r€senied. 
Published  October,  1903. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAOB 

I .  Of  books  about  books ;  and  incidentally  of  critics 

and  of  poetical  quotations 3 

II.  Of  gas-logs  and  the  private  library;   with  some 

facts  about  collectors  and  collecting  ...       24 

III.  Of  back  rows  and  the  reading  of  books;  with 

some  reflections  concerning  Catalogitis  and 
bindings 3P 

IV.  Concerning  some  books  of  small  importance   .       59 

V.  Of  the  buying  of  books;   with  remarks  about 

novels  and  about  literary  association.     .     .       81 

VI.  Of  American   novelists   and   of  Robert  Louis 

Stevenson;  with  some  remarks  about  crit- 
icism   106 

VII.  Of  old  magazines,  and  some  thoughts  concern- 

ing the  "  Star  -  Spangled  Banner"  and  the 
omniscience  of  writers 127 

VIII.  Of  truthful  books;  and  also  of  humor,  American 

and  otherwise 144 

IX.  De  Omnibus  Rebus  et  Quibusdam  Aliis      .     .     164 

X.  Of  Grangerizing,  or  extra-illustration     .     .     .      191 

XL  Of  authors  at  work;  their  blunders  and  their 
confidences;  with  some  reflections  about 
style 205 

iii 


Contents 

CHAPTER  PAOE 

XII.  Of  Walter  Pater,  book-shops,  Wordsworth,  Gil- 

bert and  Sullivan,  Marie  Corelli,  and  kindred 
topics 233 

XIII.  County  histories;   the  binding  of  old  books; 

Lamb  and  De  Quincey 247 

XIV.  Theatrical  literature     .     .     ., 261 

XV.  Of  editions  de  luxe,  old  booksellers,  quotations, 

and  indexes 276 

XVI.  Of  changes  in  fashion;  privately  printed  books; 

Dibdin;  the  honor  of  books 290 

INDEX 311 


PREFACE 

A  BOOK  must  have  an  index,  a  title-page, 
and  a  preface.  Such  is  the  unwritten  law, 
but  no  one  pays  much  attention  to  a  preface  un- 
less it  is  short.  Barry  Cornwall  said:  "Always 
read  the  preface  to  a  book.  It  places  you  on 
vantage-ground  and  enables  you  to  survey  more 
completely  the  book  itself.  You  frequently  also 
discern  the  character  of  the  author  from  the 
preface." 

More  than  a  century  ago  the  ingenious  Mr. 
John  Home  Tooke  published  the  first  volume  of 
The  Diversions  of  Purley,  but  he  made  his  philol- 
ogy subordinate  to  his  peculiar  philosophy.  "  Di- 
versions," I  understand,  are  those  things  which 
turn  or  draw  the  mind  from  care,  business,  or 
study,  and  thus  rest  and  amuse.  In  these  dis- 
cursive papers  I  have  aimed  to  keep  within  the 
definition.  They  must  not  be  regarded  too  seri- 
ously, and  those  who  may  feel  disposed  to  read 
them  will  remember  that  they  are  meant  to  be 
taken  up  and  to  be  laid  aside  at  odd  moments, 
the  confidences  of  one  who  claims  to  share  with 

V 


Preface 

many  thousands  of  his  countrymen  a  love  of 
books  for  their  own  sake. 

The  putting  of  trifles  into  type  is  surely  not  al- 
together reprehensible,  considering  the  number 
of  printed  words  produced  every  year.  But  I 
am  making  no  apologies.  They  are  usually 
odious.  If  anybody  dislikes  this  sort  of  thing, 
he  is  welcome  to  say  so;  and  while  I  may  not 
agree  with  him  in  his  disapproval,  I  will  not 
argue  the  matter. 

Adrian  Hoffman  Joline. 

New  York,  1903. 


THE 
DIVERSIONS    OF    A    BOOK-LOVER 


THE 
DIVERSIONS    OF    A    BOOK-LOVER 


Of  books  about  books ;  and  incidentally  of  critics  and 
of  poetical  quotations. 

AT  the  outset  let  us  concede,  to  avoid  un- 
^  necessary  discussion,  that  there  is  no  oc- 
casion for  another  dissertation  about  books,  for 
there  are  already  too  many  of  them.  Expert 
bibliographers,  bibliophiles,  bibliomaniacs,  and 
other  things  beginning  with  "  bib  "  have  given  us 
all  sorts  and  conditions  of  essays,  treatises,  and 
discourses,  learned,  profound,  gossipy,  historical, 
descriptive,  and  critical,  some  of  them  deHghtful 
to  the  enthusiast,  and  others  so  dull  that  even 
the  ardent  lover  of  books  is  compelled  to  lay 
them  aside  sadly.  But  the  field  is  almost  H- 
limitable.  Every  day  a  new  book -fancier  ap- 
pears, and  he  diflers  in  some  respects  from  ev- 
ery other  member  of  his  enormous  family.  The 
business  of  buying  books  is  steadily  progressive. 
I  am  not  referring  to  the  sale  of  books  over  the 

3 


The  Diuersions  of  a  Book-looer 

counter,  as  one  may  express  it,  the  purchasing 
and  the  vending  of  books  at  "department 
stores"  and  at  the  news-stands  which  abound 
in  the  busy  places,  but  to  the  traffic  which  is 
carried  on  by  the  experts  whose  names  are 
known  all  over  the  world,  and  who  understand 
how  to  appeal  to  the  hundreds  occupying  them- 
selves in  what  is  called  "forming  a  library." 
These  hundreds  in  our  land  are  rapidly  becoming 
thousands.  They  do  not  always  imagine  them- 
selves to  be  collectors,  but  from  their  ranks 
collectors  are  recruited  in  the  course  of  time,  by 
a  process  of  evolution. 

There  are  technical  books  about  books,  full 
of  information,  but  mostly  dry  and  dreary, 
which  book-lovers  pretend  to  be  fond  of,  but  I 
am  not  certain  whether  this  professed  liking  for 
them  is  wholly  sincere.  Most  of  these  mono- 
logues about  rare  books  are  tiresome  and  de- 
pressing, although  I  have  striven  in  vain  to  enjoy 
them  and  to  fancy  that  I  have  derived  great 
benefit  from  the  study  of  their  sawdusty  con- 
tents. A  book  of  logarithms,  a  treatise  on 
engineering,  or  an  essay  on  the  Greek  aorist, 
may  be  enchanting  to  a  specialist,  but  they  do 
not  fascinate  me.  If  anybody  expects  by  read- 
ing these  pages  to  gain  any  knowledge  about  the 
choice  prizes  of  the  book -world,  he  will  find 
himself   mistaken.      Abundant   materials   may 

4 


The  Diocrsions  of  a  Book-loocr 

be  found  in  the-  storehouses  laboriously  con- 
structed by  learned  men,  out  of  which  a  gloomy 
but  stately  building  might  be  erected  without 
very  great  labor;  but  I  do  not  intend  to  ap- 
peal to  any  readers  except  to  those  casual  and 
unscientific  persons  who  belong  to  my  own  class 
and  who  believe,  with  Frederick  Locker-Lamp- 
son,  that  "it  is  a  good  thing  to  read  books,  and 
it  need  not  be  a  bad  thing  to  write  them,  but  it 
is  a  pious  thing  to  preserve  those  that  have  been 
sometime  written." 

What  has  been  written  here  will  be  scorned  by 
the  scholar,  the  man  of  overpowering  book-wis- 
dom, the  personage  who  is  always  appallingly 
solemn  in  his  attitude  towards  books,  for  it  is 
absolutely  devoid  of  utility.  Things  without 
utility  relieve  that  strenuousness  of  life  which  is 
really  a  strain  upon  the  vital  forces.  By  this 
confession  I  am  protecting  myself,  I  hope,  against 
hostile  criticism ;  for  mine  adversary,  whether  or 
not  he  may  write  a  book,  can  do  no  worse  than 
to  agree  with  me.  I  address  myself  only  to  peo- 
ple with  a  fairly  good  education,  conscious  of  an 
affection  for  books,  who  have  a  secret,  bashful 
fondness — often  afraid  to  confess  it — for  the 
fruitless,  nugatory,  and  unprofitable;  who  like 
to  browse  aimlessly  about  in  libraries  without 
the  presence  of  a  censor ;  who  love  a  book  merely 
because  it  is  a  book,  the  octavo  or  duodecimo 

5 


The  Dicersions  of  a   Book-louer 

expression  of  somebody's  ideas,  no  matter  how 
trifling  or  how  feebly  unimportant  those  ideas 
may  be.  There  are  people  of  that  sort,  and  I  am 
not  ashamed  to  be  one  of  their  number;  people 
who  do  not  disdain  what  our  just-quoted  friend. 
Locker- Lampson,  calls  "a  sneeze  of  the  mind," 
or  what  might  perhaps  be  more  appropriately 
styled  a  yawn  of  the  intellect.  Few  care  to 
spend  time  over  mental  yawns  or  sternutations, 
and  it  is  to  the  few  that  I  offer,  with  ostentatious 
modesty,  these  random  reflections.  I  do  not  as- 
sert, be  it  understood,  that  the  few  are  pre-em- 
inently important  merely  because  they  are  not 
numerous,  for  the  same  might  be  said  of  men 
who  have  two  thumbs  on  one  hand,  and  of  the 
inhabitants  of  the  Andaman  Islands. 

Luckily,  no  one  is  obliged  to  read  any  book 
which  does  not  please  him,  except,  perhaps,  the 
unfortunates  who  write  book-notices  for  the 
newspapers.  These  patient  workers  have  my 
sincere  sympathy.  They  must,  perforce,  peruse 
and  criticise  a  multitude  of  printed  things,  sen- 
sible and  nonsensible,  and  their  task  is  tedious. 
In  the  course  of  time  it  must  grow  to  a  magnifi- 
cence of  boredom  comparable  only  to  that  of 
preparing  the  daily  shipping  reports  or  the  obit- 
uary notices  of  departed  worthies.  If  any  of 
these  much-enduring  toilers  take  up  this  volume, 
some  will  say  that  it  is  slight  and  others  will  say 

6 


The   Dioersions  of  a  Book-loDer 

that  it  is  heavy,  and  that  it  contains  nothing 
new.  I  grant  all  these  things  in  advance,  with 
only  a  gleam  of  hope  that  all  will  not  find  it 
heavy.  I  am  sure  that  it  is  not  replete  with  wis- 
dom, and  I  believe  there  is  not  a  single  element 
of  novelty  in  it  from  beginning  to  end.  After 
toiling  over  some  of  the  serious  and  erudite  pro- 
ductions of  our  time,  it  may  be  a  relief  to  a  few 
kindred  spirits  to  encounter  something  which 
does  not  pretend  to  be  authoritative,  erudite,  or 
original. 

An  editor  lately  lamented  the  lack  of  deserv- 
ing material  for  magazines,  and  with  a  slightly 
disparaging  reference  to  the  "leisurely"  style  of 
the  writers  who  flourished  half  a  century  ago, 
intimated  that  this  vigorous  and  practical  age 
demanded  something  more  clear,  strong,  con- 
cise, and  spirited  than  that  which  pleased  our 
fathers.  It  may  be  true,  although  it  is  doubtful 
whether  the  demand  is  as  universal  or  as  per- 
emptory as  the  editor  would  have  us  believe. 
The  old  writers  of  the  leisurely  sort  seem  to  re- 
tain much  of  their  former  popularity,  but  per- 
haps they  are  read  because  of  their  established 
fame.  It  is  easy  to  admire  what  we  have  been 
told  for  generations  is  worthy  of  admiration; 
but  no  man,  editor  or  publisher,  critic  or  philoso- 
pher, is  capable  of  announcing  in  advance,  with 
any  reasonable    certainty,  that  any  particular 

7 


The  Diuersions  of  a  Book-louer 

book  or  style  will  meet  with  no  approval  what- 
ever. Even  those  patient  beings  who  "read" 
for  publishers  the  innumerable  manuscripts 
which  pour  in  upon  the  printing-houses  like  the 
floods  of  Pelee  upon  Saint- Pierre  are  not  infalli- 
ble, and  there  is  in  the  anecdote  department  a 
capacious  pigeon-hole  filled  with  the  records  of 
their  blunders.  I  fancy  that,  contrary  to  the 
rule,  they  are  more  prone  to  error  as  their  experi- 
ence increases,  because  their  minds  must  surely 
grow  dull  with  the  surfeit.  It  is  not  surprising 
that  they  should  cast  aside  the  two  hundredth 
novel  with  the  cry  of  Jeffrey,  "This  will  never 
do." 

There  is  food  for  reflection  in  the  study  of 
book  reviews.  Laying  aside  those  which  are 
palpably  advertisements  in  the  guise  of  criticism, 
one  will  find  this  reviewer  in  ecstasies  over  that 
which  his  fellow-reviewer  feels  obliged  to  treat 
with  contempt  or  with  severity.  It  has  never 
been  otherwise  in  the  history  of  literature.  Re- 
duced to  a  truism,  it  is  all  a  matter  of  taste.  I 
once  saw  a  well-dressed  man  intently  reading  a 
small  book  on  a  rail  way- train.  I  was  mean  and 
petty  enough  to  look  over  his  shoulder,  not  from 
vulgar  curiosity,  but  in  order  to  find  out  some- 
thing about  his  literary  preferences.  It  was 
a  work  I  had  never  before  seen  —  to  wit,  a 
Book  of  Conundrums.     He  enjoyed  it,  and  why 


The  Diversions  of  a  Book-looer 

should  I  be  disturbed  merely  because  I  should 
not  have  enjoyed  it  myself?  Lord  Dundreary 
was  anxious  to  learn  from  the  object  of  his  affec- 
tions whether,  if  she  had  a  brother,  he  would  like 
cheese.  She  could  not  tell  him,  and  I  am  equally 
unable  to  enlighten  anybody  regarding  what  my 
brother,  if  I  had  one,  would  care  for  in  the  matter 
of  literary  refreshment. 

The  instruction  of  our  fellow-creatures  about 
what  they  ought  to  like  is  a  thankless  business. 
Most  of  us  prefer  to  discover  it  for  ourselves. 
My  favorite  play,  my  favorite  joke,  and  my  fa- 
vorite dish  never  seem  to  please  my  intimate 
friend  when  I  direct  his  attention  to  them.  He 
yawns  through  the  play,  sighs  reflectively  at  the 
joke,  and  tells  me  how  much  better  some  wretch- 
ed concoction  of  his  own  is  than  my  pet  entree. 
It  has  been  a  matter  of  years,  but  I  have  learned 
my  lesson.  I  recommend  nothing,  unless  it  may 
be  to  some  one  who  is  going  to  ask  a  favor,  and 
who  will  lie  cheerfully  in  order  to  propitiate  me. 
I  loathe  and  abominate  caraway-seeds,  but  I 
once  ate  a  whole  cake  containing  those  horrors 
because  Governor  Seward  gave  it  to  me  at  his 
house  on  New  Year's  Day,  and  I  meant  to  ask 
him  for  his  autograph  —  thoughtless  lad  that  I 
was,  unaware  of  the  extent  of  my  crime.  I  sel- 
dom tell  an  acquaintance  that  he  ought  to  read 
a  particular  book.     If  I  wish  him  to  enjoy  it,  I 

9 


The  Diucrsions  of  a  Book-louer 

leave  it  about  casually  where  he  may  come  upon 
it  by  accident,  or  I  denounce  it  in  unmeasured 
terms,  which  is  a  fairly  sure  method  of  enlisting 
his  interest  in  it. 

It  is  quite  likely  that  some  solemn  person  may 
say  that  my  remarks  are  frequently  lacking  in 
good  taste ;  which,  correctly  defined,  is  what  some 
people  think  that  every  one  else  ought  to  think. 
Voltaire  said  that  Shakespeare  was  natural  and 
sublime,  but  had  not  so  much  as  a  single  spark 
of  good  taste.  I  shall  not  presume  upon  this 
common  attribute  to  regard  myself  as  a  modern 
Shakespeare,  for  I  do  not  quite  see  how  these 
diversions  could  be  dramatized. 

Mr.  Zangwill  says  of  some  of  his  utterances, 
that  they  are  "egoistic."  "To  be  egoistic,"  he 
tells  us,  "is  not  to  be  egotistic.  Egoism  should 
be  distinguished  from  egotism.  The  egoist  offers 
his  thought  to  his  fellow-man,  the  egotist  thinks 
it  is  the  only  thought  worth  their  acceptance." 
I  plead  guilty  to  the  most  pronounced  egoism. 
It  is  wholly  immaterial  to  me  whether  anybody 
accepts  my  thoughts.  If  I  am  right,  it  is  not  my 
fault,  but  the  reader's  misfortune,  that  he  re- 
fuses to  accept  them ;  if  I  am  wrong,  it  is  better 
for  all  that  they  should  not  be  accepted.  More- 
over, to  be  entirely  candid,  most  of  my  ideas  are 
only  the  thoughts  of  other  people,  borrowed  with- 
out blushes,  and  in  all  likelihood  those  people 

TO 


The  Dioersions  of  a  Boob-louer 

had  borrowed  them  also.  Macaulay  found  his 
famous  New-Zealander  in  Mrs.  Barbauld's  poem ; 
and  more  than  half  a  century  before  the  immor- 
tal traveller  from  the  antipodes  took  his  stand 
on  a  broken  arch  of  London  Bridge,  Horace 
Walpole  brought  a  "curious  traveller  from 
Lima"  to  visit  England  and  give  a  description 
of  "the  ruins  of  St.  Paul's."  The  great  church 
of  Sir  Christopher  Wren  was,  for  the  English- 
man, the  type  of  the  indestructible,  and  it  is  sig- 
nificant that  of  late  we  have  been  hearing  ru- 
mors about  its  instability  following  close  upon 
the  downfall  of  the  Venetian  Campanile. 

It  is  only  the  great  who  are  suffered  to  steal 
with  impunity;  and  Shakespeare  may  plunder 
where  he  will,  Dryden  filch  from  Publius  Syrus, 
Moliere  from  Cyrano  de  Bergerac,  and  Carlyle 
from  Richter,  without  serious  consequences. 
Doubtless,  each  one  took  his  idea  from  the  com- 
mon source  of  ideas,  without  regard  for  the  man 
who  had  said  his  good  thing  before  him.  "  Oh, 
life!  Oh,  Menander!  Which  of  you  is  the  pla- 
giarist?" 

A  reviewer  once  sneered  at  me  because  he 
found  me,  as  he  erroneously  supposed,  asserting 
that  Robert  Southey's  half-witted  uncle  invented 
the  ancient  Arab  saying  which  is  the  motto  of 
Kehama,  "Curses,  like  chickens,  always  come 
home  to  roost."     This  is  why  I  now  take  the 

II 


The   Dicersions  of  a  Book-looer 

liberty  of  explaining  that  I  am  not  accusing 
Moliere  of  robbing  M.  Rostand.  I  am  only  re- 
ferring to  what  you  all  know  but  may  have  tem- 
porarily forgotten,  that  "what  the  devil  did  he 
want  in  that  galley"  may  be  found  not  only  in 
Les  Fourberies  de  Scapin,  but  in  the  Pedant  Joue. 
One  error  of  judgment  in  explaining  anything 
leads  to  another.  I  know  that  the  phrase  about 
the  galley  has  another  version ;  I  have  taken  my 
choice.  It  would  doubtless  have  been  more 
prudent  to  quote  the  original  French,  but  I  am 
too  indolent  to  rewrite  the  page. 

It  is  amusing  to  note  the  puzzled  air  of  sur- 
prise, mingled  with  a  slight  breath  of  irritation, 
with  which  the  professional  writer,  and  particu- 
larly the'  journalist,  views  the  amateur  who  in- 
vades the  field  of  authorship.  The  lawyer  is 
pityingly  indulgent  towards  the  silly  layman  who 
essays  the  trial  of  his  own  cause ;  the  doctor  looks 
with  ill-concealed  glee  upon  the  unwary  person 
who  experiments  with  prescriptions  taken  from 
Every  Man  His  Own  Physician;  the  haughty 
graduate  of  West  Point  merely  despises  the  cap- 
tain of  militia  and  will  not  condescend  even  to 
criticise  him.  But  the  literary  expert  is  uneasily 
resentful  over  the  intrusion  of  the  casual  scrib- 
bler upon  his  own  peculiar  territory.  He  re- 
gards it  as  an  unwarranted  trespass,  and  it  is 
difficult  for  him  to  hide  his  real  feelings.     Still, 

12 


The  Diversions   of  a  Book-looer 

he  has  no  sufficient  reason  to  repel  the  amateur, 
for  that  worthy  seldom  takes  much  by  his  ex- 
periment. When  he  does  not  pay  the  publisher 
to  print  his  production,  he  usually  derives  so 
little  pecuniary  profit  from  his  performance  that 
he  cannot  justly  be  accused  of  snatching  the 
bread  from  any  innocent  mouth. 

In  college  days,  I  often  marvelled  at  the  wis- 
dom of  the  professional  writers  who  seemed  to 
have  solved  every  perplexing  problem,  and  who 
tossed  off  such  easy  references  to  old  authors 
whose  works  we  could  not  find  in  our  rather 
exiguous  library  of  that  remote  period.  "What 
research!  What  memory!"  I  thought;  and  I 
sighed  as  I  reflected  that  I  could  never  hope  to 
know  a  thousandth  part  as  much  as  they  knew. 
I  have  since  discovered  that  with  a  fairly  re- 
spectable encyclopaedia,  Bartletfs  Dictionary  of 
Familiar  Quotations,  and  one  or  two  compendi- 
ums,  it  is  the  simplest  thing  in  the  world  to  se- 
cure the  appearance  of  learning. 

One  of  these  compendiums,  now  lying  on  the 
table,  is  the  thick,  uncut,  crown-octavo  volume, 
printed  "for  private  distribution"  in  1867,  by 
"Henry  G.  Bohn,  F.R.G.S.,  F.R.A.S.,  F.R.S.L., 
F.S.L.,  F.H.S.,  F.St.G.,  F.Eth.S.,  and  Honorary 
Member  of  the  Institute  of  Geneva,"  who  must 
have  been,  as  the  irreverent  might  say,  a  devil 

13 


The   Diocrsions   of  a   Book-looer 

of  a  fellow.  It  is  called  A  Dictionary  of  Quota- 
tions from  the  English  Poets,  and  prefixed  to  it  is 
an  ornamental  philobiblon  leaf,  headed: 

Whether  old  friend  or  new, 
A  shy  friend  or  true, 
Buff,  orange,  or  blue. 
This  book  is  for  you. 

I  am  sure  that  these  lines  are  wholly  original, 
for  their  simplicity  is  remarkable.  After  them 
comes,  "  Presented  to,"  and  then  the  autographic 
inscription,  "Francis  Welford,  Esqr.,  with  the 
friendly  comp^^-  of  Henry  G.  Bohn,  Oct.  14th, 
1869." 

"  This  volume,"  says  Mr.  Bohn,  in  the  preface, 
"whatever  its  merits  or  demerits,  will  have  cost 
me,  independently  of  my  personal  labor,  several 
hundred  pounds;  it  is  not  printed  for  sale,  but 
exclusively  for  presents  to  my  friends  and  ac- 
quaintances, or  persons  of  public  esteem  with 
whom  I  have  had,  or  may  hereafter  have,  social 
relations."  It  has  become  quite  rare,  and  sells 
for  a  round  sum ;  but  it  is  a  curious  monument 
of  misdirected  industry.  There  cannot  now  be 
many  persons  who  would  deliberately  search 
in  it  for  appropriate  verses.  The  fashion  of 
"quoting  poetry"  has  gone  by,  and  so  has  the 
ostentatious  display  of  learning.  It  is  only  once 
in  a  while  that  an  occasion  presents  itself  for  a 

14 


The  Dioersions  off  a  Book-locer 

felicitous  citation,  such  an  occasion,  for  example, 
as  that  of  the  bar-meeting  in  New  York  on  the 
withdrawal  of  the  late  Chief -Justice  Charles  P. 
Daly  from  the  bench  of  the  Common  Pleas. 
After  more  than  forty  years  of  judicial  service, 
he  was  the  victim  of  that  provision  of  the  con- 
stitution of  New  York  which  retires  a  judge  at 
the  age  of  seventy;  "God  Almighty's  statute  of 
limitations,"  in  the  phrase  of  EHsha  Williams, 
having  run  against  him.  Judge  Daly  was  a 
member  of  the  convention  of  1867  which  framed 
this  very  provision.  William  Allen  Butler,  in  his 
address  at  the  farewell  gathering,  referred  to  the 
fact  with  the  remark  that  the  venerable  jurist, 
in  thus  decreeing  his  compulsory  exile  from  the 
bench. 

Viewed  his  own  feather  on  the  fatal  dart, 
And  wing'd  the  shaft  that  quivered  in  his  heart. 

The  Supreme  Court  of  the  United  States  is  the 
most  solemn  tribunal  known  to  man,  and  the 
preternatural  dignity  of  its  members,  when  in 
session,  is  suggestive  of  the  Appellate  Division 
of  the  lower  world — Minos,  ^acus,  and  Rhada- 
manthus.  It  is  believed  that  the  justices  smiled 
one  day  when  the  author  of  "  Nothing  to  Wear  " 
had  been  endeavoring  to  convince  them  that  a 
provision  in  an  insurance  policy  was  available 
for  the  company,   but  could   not  be  invoked 

15 


The  Diuersions  of  a  Book-looer 

by  the  assured.  His  opponent  slyly  remarked: 
"The  learned  counsel  reminds  me  of  the  words 
of  an  American  poet,  when  he  makes  Miss  Flora 
McFlimsey  say  to  her  affianced : 

'This  is  the  sort  of  engagement,  you  see. 
Which  is  binding  on  you,  but  not  binding  on  me.* 

He  then  proceeded  to  contend  that  in  a  previ- 
ous decision  against  him  the  court  was  wholly 
wrong.  When  a  reply  was  in  order,  Mr.  Butler 
observed  that  counsel  had  seen  fit  to  allude  to  a 
minor  poet,  but  that,  in  view  of  the  line  of  argu- 
ment adopted  by  his  adversary,  he  was  disposed 
to  refer  him  to  the  great  English  poet  who  re- 
joiced in  the  same  name,  and  who  said,  in  "  Hudi- 

bras": 

He  that  complies  against  his  will 
Is  of  his  own  opinion  still. 

This  legal  divarication  somehow  reminds  me  of 
Counsellor  Thomas  Nolan,  of  the  New  York  bar, 
who  has  had  a  little  book  devoted  to  his  sayings. 
It  is  called  The  Barrister,  and  is  adorned  with  a 
portrait  which  resembles  Nolan  about  as  much 
as  it  does  George  ^Yashington.  I  regret  to  say 
that  many  of  the  stories  about  the  giant  coun- 
sellor are  apocryphal,  some  of  them  having 
been  told  of  lawyers  ever  since  the  Flood. 

Nolan  was  what  is  called  "a  character,"  like 
George  the  Count  Joannes,  and  Henry  H.  Mo- 

i6 


The   Diocrsions  of  a   Book-looer 

range,  the  ex-barber  Whitlegge,  old  George  Niles 
— who  said  that  "he  always  tried  to  live  with- 
in the  Revised  Statutes  " — and  others  whom  we 
elderly  lawyers  well  remember.  One  of  us  was 
asked  the  other  day,  "What  has  become  of  the 
characters  of  our  bar?"  and  my  friend,  a  philoso- 
pher and  a  sage,  replied,  "  I  suppose  we  are  the 
characters  now." 

To  my  personal  knowledge  Tom  Nolan  once 
addressed  a  jury  of  his  countrymen  in  these 
words:  "Ay,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  and  thereby 
hangs  a  tale.  Every  hair  upon  that  tail  bristles 
with  significance."  I  see  him  now,  with  his  top- 
hat  and  his  double-breasted  frock-coat,  stalking 
in  stately  fashion  down  Broadway,  one  of  the 
few  who  kept  the  modern  lawyer  in  an  atmos- 
phere of  solemn  dignity.  Most  of  us  are  only 
capable  of  imitating  the  lofty  air  of  chauffeurs. 

While  I  am  on  the  subject  of  lawyers,  I  am  re- 
minded of  an  incident  which,  perhaps,  is  found- 
ed on  fact,  although  most  bar  anecdotes  are  of 
doubtful  authenticity.  You  will  find  many  of 
them  in  Mr.  Willock's  Legal  Facetice,  pubHshed 
in  1887,  and  they  are  reproduced  with  small  ad- 
ditions as  anecdotes  of  living  lawyers.  It  is 
amusing  to  see,  as  in  Nolan's  case,  the  old  stock 
stories  revived  from  time  to  time  and  ascribed  to 
jurists  of  the  present  day.  It  is  said  that  a  tall, 
raw-boned  lawyer  from  the  Pacific  coast  opened 

17 


The   Dioersions  of  a   Book-looer 

his  argument  before  the  Supreme  Court  in  this 
way:  "  May  it  please  the  court,  this  is  an  appeal 
from  an  oral  decision  handed  down  by  the  Circuit 
Court  of  Appeals  for  the  Eighth  Circuit."  The 
keen  eye  of  the  late  Mr.  Justice  Gray  was  upon 
him,  and  the  well-known  accents  of  the  late  Mr. 
Justice  Gray's  voice  rang  out  with  a  "  had-him- 
there"  intonation.  "Handed  down?  An  oral 
decision  handed  down?  How  is  that  possible?" 
"Well,  your  honor,"  drawled  the  unabashed  ad- 
vocate, "  you  see,  it  was  so  weak  they  couldn't  get 
it  down  any  other  way." 

Mr.  Butler,  whose  distinguished  career  ended 
in  September,  1902,  was  probably  the  last  sur- 
vivor of  those  who  saw  John  Marshall  pre- 
siding in  the  Supreme  Court.  It  was  the  last 
term  in  which  the  illustrious  chief- justice  took 
part.  Mr.  Butler,  a  lad  of  nine,  accompanied  his 
father,  Benjamin  F.  Butler  (Jackson's  Attorney- 
General),  and  William  Wirt  to  the  court-room, 
and  saw  the  justices  take  down  their  robes  from 
the  pegs,  place  them  upon  their  august  forms, 
and  march  in  solemn  procession  to  their  seats  on 
the  bench.  The  room  is  now  used  as  a  library 
and  consultation  chamber,  and  the  robing  is  ac- 
complished in  private  instead  of  in  the  court- 
room itself. 

There  are  certain  conventional  remarks  which 
we  are  sure  to  find  repeated  whenever  particular 

18 


The   Dioersions  of  a  Book-loocr 

subjects  are  mentioned.  For  example,  when  Mr. 
Butler  died,  every  journal  in  the  land  devoted 
considerable  space  to  "  Nothing  to  Wear,"  and 
one  of  them  was  moved  to  declare,  with  errone- 
ous judgment,  that  the  celebrated  poem  was  the 
only  thing  which  made  him  known  to  any  except 
to  his  intimate  associates ;  whereas  his  fame  as  a 
lawyer  was,  with  those  whose  approval  is  of  any 
value,  of  the  highest  order.  Of  course,  the  writer 
felt  himself  called  upon  to  allude  to  "Single- 
Speech  Hamilton"  and  to  Philip  James  Bailey's 
"  Festus."  In  like  manner,  the  name  of  Aaron 
Burr  invariably  leads  to  reflections  on  duelling, 
and  that  of  Thomas  Dunn  English  to  reminis- 
cences of  "  Ben  Bolt." 

Of  recent  years  it  has  become  the  fashion  to 
parade  a  list  of  the  clubs  to  which  a  man  belongs. 
If  he  dies,  or  is  married,  or  has  anything  happen 
to  him  of  equal  importance,  the  inevitable  club 
schedule  follows  his  name.  Even  when  a  water- 
main  burst  not  long  ago  in  front  of  the  house  of 
a  wealthy  person,  the  newspapers  hastened  to 
tell  us  that  he  was  a  member  of  the  Century,  the 
University,  the  Metropolitan,  and  all  the  rest 
of  it.  The  pertinency  of  the  information  is  not 
very  apparent.  Somebody  once  bought  a  share 
of  stock  in  the  Chemical  Bank  because  he 
thought  it  would  give  an  air  of  distinction  to 
the  inventory  of  his  estate ;  and  a  similar  motive 

19 


The  Dioersions   of  a  Book-looer 

must  influence  many  citizens  who  join  club  after 
club  to  which  they  never  go,  in  order  to  expand 
their  obituary  notices. 

With  all  our  complainings  and  dissatisfaction, 
we  cling  fondly  to  our  newspapers,  and  our  morn- 
ing cup  of  coffee  would  be  tasteless  indeed  with- 
out their  cheerful  companionship.  They  may 
not  give  us  literature,  but  they  aim  to  do  it,  and 
they  try  to  be  something  better  than  it  is  possi- 
ble to  make  them.  They  remind  us  of  the  say- 
ing of  the  grumbling  Oxford  don  immortalized 
in  one  of  the  Roundabout  Papers,  that  all  claret 
would  be  port  if  it  could.  We  must  not  look 
for  the  polished  phrases  of  Addison  or  for  the 
eloquent  periods  of  Burke  in  the  broad  sheets 
of  our  favorite  daily,  which  is  wonderful  enough 
in  itself  and  would  have  seemed  marvellous  to 
both  of  those  literary  magnates.  The  press  rep- 
resents the  taste  and  the  intelligence  of  the  peo- 
ple ;  not  always  marked  by  culture  or  refinement, 
but  suited  to  the  needs  of  the  multitude  of  read- 
ers for  whom  the  journals  are  manufactured.  As 
to  their  general  contents,  it  is  the  same  now  as  it 
was  when  Charles  Sprague,  one  of  our  almost- 
forgotten  poets,  wrote: 

Turn  to  the  press,  its  teeming  sheets  survey, 
Big  with  the  wonders  of  each  passing  day; 
Births,  deaths,  and  weddings,  forgeries,  fires,  and  wrecks, 
Harangues  and  hail-stones,  brawls  and  broken  necks. 

20 


The  Dioersions  of  a  Book-loocr 

As  Professor  Woodberry  said,  not  long  ago, 
in  Harper's  Magazine:  "The  effective  literature 
of  the  city  is,  in  reality,  and  has  long  been, 
its  great  dailies.  In  them  are  to  be  found 
all  the  elements  of  literature  except  the  quali- 
ties that  secure  permanence."  Despite  the 
many  mistakes,  the  annoying  errors  of  the 
newspapers — we  all  know  how  difficult  it  is 
to  report  anything  with  absolute  accuracy — 
we  must  wonder  at  the  results  they  achieve, 
and  marvel  at  the  fact  that,  in  the  haste 
of  their  production,  they  ever  approach  the 
truth. 

I  have  ascertained  that  it  is  not  difficult  for 
any  person  commanding  a  printing  -  press  to 
master  a  certain  sneering  style  of  comment, 
which  may  easily  be  used  upon  any  book  how- 
ever meritorious,  and  upon  any  author  however 
great  and  powerful.  Consider,  for  example,  the 
Frenchman  who  said  of  "  Evangeline  ":"  What 
have  I  to  do  with  that  cow  ?"  Consider  also 
Max  Nordau's  words  regarding  what  he  calls  the 
senseless  phrases  of  Rossetti.  Like  most  read- 
ing individuals,  prone  to  echo  the  views  of  oth- 
ers, I  am  in  awe  of  Rossetti,  notwithstand- 
ing the  fact  that,  according  to  Mr.  F.  W.  H. 
Myers,  much  of  his  art  in  speech  and  col- 
or   spends    itself    in    the    effort   to    communi- 

21 


The   Diuersions  of  a  Book-loocr 

cate  the  incommunicable.     Nordau  quotes  the 

lines : 

The  hollow  halo  it  was  in 
Was  like  an  icy  crystal  cup. 

"It  is  stark  nonsense,"  said  the  Apostle  of  De- 
generation, "to  qualify  a  plane  surface  such  as 
a  halo  by  the  adjective  '-hollow.'  "  That  sort  of 
criticism  is  cheap;  mere  verbal  trifling,  signify- 
ing nothing.  It  is  of  a  piece  with  that  amusing 
instance  of  literalism  related  not  long  ago,  which 
censured  John  Hay  for  making  Jim  Bludso,  an 
engineer,  do  the  pilot's  work,  and  amended  "  The 
Heathen  Chinee  "  so  as  to  read : 

In  his  sleeves,  which  were  long, 
He  had  twenty-four  Jacks, 

on  the  ground  that  no  sleeves  would  hold 
twenty  -  four  packs,  and  that  the  Jacks  were 
the  only  really  valuable  cards  in  the  game  of 
euchre. 

The  tendencies  of  men  have  changed  but  little 
since  Pope  said: 

.  .  .  Numbers  err  in  this, 

Ten  censure  wrong  for  one  who  writes  amiss. 

We  shall  not  go  far  astray  if  we  follow  his  advice 
to 

22 


The   Dioersions   of  a  Book-loocr 

Neglect  the  rule  each  verbal  critic  lays, 
For  not  to  know  some  trifles  is  a  praise; 
And  men  of  breeding,  sometimes  men  of  wit, 
T'avoid  great  errors,  must  the  less  commit. 

There  are  men,  it  is  said,  who  would  indict  a 
metaphor  and  try  a  trope ;  they  regard  the  use 
of  poetic  license  as  a  punishable  misdemeanor. 
Our  beloved  professor  of  French,  General  Joseph 
Karge,  thirty  years  ago  had  like  views  of  poetic 
license,  for  I  remember  that  every  now  and  then, 
if  he  encountered  an  example  of  it,  he  would  say, 
with  a  fine  flashing  of  the  eye,  "Gentlemen,  I 
cause  you  to  remark  the  licentiousness  of  the 
poet." 


II 


Of  gas-logs  and  the  private  library;  with  some  facts 
about  collectors  and  collecting, 

ONCE  on  a  time  I  rashly  printed  a  modest 
booklet,  and  a  good-natured  reviewer,  who 
amazed  me  by  devoting  two  columns  to  the  task, 
complained  somewhat  inconsistently  that  there 
was  nothing  in  the  book,  and  that  I  had  tried  to 
compress  several  volumes  of  sketches  into  three 
hundred  pages.  Falling  into  the  common  error 
of  untrained  minds,  he  arrived  at  a  conclusion 
wholly  unsupported  by  evidence — to  wit,  that 
I  have  a  gas-log  in  my  library-room.  I  never 
owned  or  possessed  a  gas-log  in  my  life;  and  I 
never  said  that  I  did.  I  feel  a  peculiar  sense  of 
discomfort  in  the  presence  of  a  gas-log,  for  it  is 
much  more  obtrusive  than  the  plain,  inoffensive 
register,  or  the  ugly,  self-assertive  radiator.  A 
gas-log  is  an  imitation,  and  therefore  a  sham. 
It  is  really  prettier  than  a  radiator,  but  a  radi- 
ator makes  no  pretences;  it  does  not  ask  you  to 
mistake  it  for  a  cannel-coal  fire,  and  it  does  not 
pose  as  an  open  hearth  with  real  wood.     Yet, 

24 


The  Dioersions  of  a  Book-looer 

perhaps,  the  gas-log  is  more  aesthetic  than  the 
ordinary  stove,  and  my  strongest  objection  to  it 
is  based  upon  the  fundamental  truth  that  it 
bums  gaseously,  and  is  therefore  not  only  un- 
poetical  but  destructive.  Nobody  who  cares  for 
books  will  permit  the  burning  of  gas  in  his  library 
if  he  can  help  it.  "The  book-collector,"  saith 
Mr.  Lang,  "must  avoid  gas,  which  deposits  a 
filthy  coat  of  oil  that  catches  dust."  Mr.  Blades 
observed  that  three  jets  of  gas  in  a  small  room 
reduced  the  leather  on  his  book-shelves  to  a  pow- 
der of  the  consistency  of  snuff,  and  made  the 
backs  of  his  books  come  away  in  his  hand.  Our 
American  gas  cannot  be  as  virulent  as  the  Eng- 
lish article,  for  I  never  knew  it  to  behave  quite 
as  wickedly  as  that ;  but  it  is  bad  enough.  The 
peculiar  quality  of  the  heat  seems  to  dry  the 
bindings  unduly.  The  great  James  Lenox  felt 
the  danger  keenly,  and,  when  he  founded  his 
Library,  commanded  that  it  should  never  be 
opened  at  night,  because  of  the  harm  which 
comes  from  artificial  light  of  the  kind  which 
was  in  vogue  in  his  day.  Since  then  the  elec- 
tric light,  more  merciful  to  bindings,  has  enabled 
the  wise  and  skilful  lawyers  of  the  New  York 
Public  Library  Board  to  find  a  way  of  evading 
the  prohibition. 

Almost  as  reprehensible  as  the  gas -log  habit 
is  the  tall  book-case,  which  renders  necessary  a 

25 


The  Diuersions  of  a  Book-locer 

set  of  steps  to  afford  a  means  of  capturing  the  in- 
habitants of  the  upper  regions.  After  a  certain 
age,  one  hesitates  to  risk  Hfe  and  limb  in  perilous 
climbings  of  ladders.  I  want  my  books  where  I 
can  lay  my  hand  upon  them  without  exertion.  I 
have  had  trouble  enough  in  getting  them  on  the 
shelves  to  entitle  me  to  get  them  off  easily.  Ac- 
cording to  the  rule,  the  heavy  dragoons,  the  pon- 
derous artillery  of  quartos  and  folios,  are  always 
at  the  bottom,  and  the  skirmishers,  the  light  in- 
fantry, at  the  top ;  and  I  usually  want  the  little 
ones.  Unfortunately,  we  cannot  all  of  us  pos- 
sess sufficient  wall-space  to  allow  the  indulgence 
of  our  taste  for  long,  low  cases,  and  few  can  af- 
ford the  luxury  of  mezzanine  galleries  like  those 
of  our  book-loving  friend  Pauperius,  of  Gramercy 
Park. 

There  are  certain  "books  about  books"  which 
provoke  one  to  mild  indignation,  because  they 
assume  that  the  reader  is  ignorant  of  very  ele- 
mentary things.  I  am  thinking  at  the  moment 
of  The  Private  Library,  by  Mr.  Arthur  L.  Hum- 
phreys, a  copy  of  the  fourth  edition  whereof  is 
before  me.  It  is  a  pretty  book,  well  printed, 
well  bound,  and  well  groomed,  with  that  com- 
fortable and  dignified  English  air  about  it  which 
our  books  do  not  usually  possess.  There  is  a 
vast  deal  of  valuable  information  in  its  one  hun- 

26 


The  Dioersions   of   a   Book-looer 

dred  and  fifty- two  pages,  but  some  of  the  advice 
reminds  one  of  the  treatises  on  etiquette  in 
which  we  are  told  that  we  must  not  eat  pease 
with  our  knives  or  partake  of  soup  audibly. 
Richard  Aungerville,  called  De  Bury,  hated  "  the 
dirty  cleric  who  will  eat  fruit  or  cheese  over  a 
book,  put  in  straws  for  marks,  press  flowers  in 
it" ;  but  it  is  almost  insulting  to  the  intelligence 
of  a  modem  book -lover  to  inform  him  that 
"books  are  neither  card-racks,  crumb-baskets, 
or  receptacles  for  dead  leaves"  ;  that  they  "were 
not  meant  as  cushions,  nor  were  they  meant  to 
be  toasted  before  a  fire  "  ;  or  that  we  should  write 
only  on  the  blank  fly-leaf  and  never  upon  a  title- 
page  or  half-title.  "  Cigarette  -  ashes  are  very 
bad  for  books,"  some  one  says ;  "  so  is  butter,  also 
marmalade."  Few  will  dispute  these  profound 
truths.  If  I  am  not  mistaken,  Southey  was  care- 
ful with  his  books,  but  Coleridge  would  cut  the 
leaves  with  a  butter-knife,  and  De  Quincey  was 
merciless  towards  them.  My  pet  foe  is  the  in- 
dividual who  turns  the  comers  of  the  leaves,  who 
drags  the  book  from  the  shelf  by  the  top,  and 
who  lays  it  open  face  downward. 

It  irritates  me  also  to  be  assured  by  Mr.  Hum- 
phreys that  "magazines,"  when  kept  complete, 
should  be  bound  up  in  their  volumes,  either 
yearly  or  half-yearly.  That  method  of  proced- 
ure would  occur  to  most  people,  and  the  ordinary 

27 


The  Dioersions  of  a  Book-looer 

mind  is  capable  of  understanding  the  reason  of 
it.  We  are  edified  at  learning  that  many  peo- 
ple, notably  Gladstone,  read  before  going  to  bed. 
The  grand  old  man  was  surely  not  entitled  to  ad- 
miration in  that  regard,  for  there  are  few  who 
confine  their  reading  to  the  period  after  their 
retirement  to  slumber.  On  the  whole,  however, 
The  Private  Library  has  many  attractive  quali- 
ties, and  it  is  useful  to  the  neophyte. 

Technically,  a  true  book-man,  a  genuine  book- 
collector,  is  one  who  gathers  unto  himself  the  old 
and  rare  examples,  the  historic  specimens,  the 
ancient  manuscripts;  such  treasures  as  the  Fust 
and  Schoffer  Psalters,  the  Homer  of  Bemardus 
et  Nerias  Nerlius  (1488),  the  Mazarine  Bible, 
Shakespeare  quartos,  the  Hypnerotomachia  of 
Poliphilus,  the  Aldine  classics,  the  uncut  Elze- 
virs with  the  broad  margins,  or  the  wondrous 
things  told  of  in  Dibdin's  tedious  chronicles,  and 
in  John  Hill  Burton's  more  entertaining  Book- 
Hunter.  But  may  not  one  presume  to  call  him- 
self a  lover  of  books  even  if  he  does  not  confine 
his  affections  to  the  royal  family  of  books?  One 
may  be  permitted  to  regard  himself  as  a  bookish 
person  even  if,  like  Burton's  Fitzpatrick  Smart, 
he  is  "  not  a  black-letter  man,  or  a  tall  copyist,  or 
an  uncut  man,  or  a  rough-edge  man,  or  an  early 
English  dramatist,  or  an  Elzevirian,  or  a  broad- 
sider,  or  a  pasquinader,  or  an  old-brown-calf 

28 


The  Dioersions  of  a   Book-looer 

man,  or  a  Grangerite,  or  a  tawny-moroccoite,  or 
a  gilt-topper,  or  a  marbled-insider,  or  an  editio 
princeps  man."  This  is  a  conspicuous  exam- 
ple of  what  somebody  called  "  the  slang  of  the 
library."  When  the  unique  copy  of  Boccaccio, 
"that  most  notorious  volume  in  existence," 
fetched  ;^2  26o  at  the  Duke  of  Roxburghe's  sale, 
it  was  bought  by  the  Marquis  of  Blandford,  after- 
wards Duke  of  Marlborough,  in  competition 
with  Earl  Spencer.  Leigh  Hunt  was  present  at 
this  "battle  between  the  two  Spencers,"  and  he 
observes:  " The  Earl,  who,  I  believe,  was  a  genu- 
ine lover  of  books,  could  go  home  and  reconcile 
himself  to  his  defeat  by  reading  the  work  in  a 
cheaper  edition."  That  is  a  pleasure  which  we 
humble  mortals  may  surely  be  allowed  to  enjoy, 
albeit  we  are  debarred  by  fate  and  a  scanty  in- 
come from  entering  the  enchanted  regions  where, 
for  a  small  fortune,  one  may  discover  and  bear 
away  the  ornaments  of  libraries  like  those  of  the 
leaders  in  the  parliament  of  New  York  book- 
men. 

In  what  I  have  been  saying  of  the  Boccaccio, 
I  have  relied  on  the  testimony  of  Mr.  William 
Younger  Fletcher,  in  his  interesting  work  about 
English  Book-Collectors,  as  well  as  on  the  Dic- 
tionary of  National  Biography,  and  Charles  and 
Mary  Elton's  Great  Book -Collectors,  but  I  am 
mindful  of  the  fact  that  Hunt,  an  eye-witness, 

29 


The  Dioersions  of  a  Book-loDer 

gives  the  amount  of  the  price  as  ;^i4oo,  which 
is  erroneous,  of  course,  as  is  usual  with  the 
evidence  of  eye-witnesses.  In  May,  1842, 
Blackwood  asserted  that  the  price  was  ;^i25o, 
adding  that  later  on  the  book  "fell  into  the 
hands  of  Earl  Spencer,  who  probably  values  a 
print  of  a  prize-cow  more  than  all  the  strophes 
of  -^schylus."  But  the  magazine-writer  says: 
"  It  was  a  clumsy,  coarsely  printed,  and  rude- 
looking  little  squat  book;  and  if  we  wanted 
an  example  of  the  absurdity  to  which  rival 
nonsense  can  urge  the  silliest  of  mankind,  we 
should  quote  the  sale  of  the  Decameron''  \  and 
he  says  of  the  author  of  the  novels,  "a  more 
corrupt  ruffian  never  polluted  any  language." 
After  that  I  would  not  believe  the  Black- 
wood man  under  oath.  The  allusion  to  a  prize- 
cow  seems  uncalled  for  and  impertinent,  for 
Earl  Spencer's  fame  rests  largely  upon  his  great 
library,  said  by  Renouald  to  have  been  "  the 
finest  private  library  in  Europe."  Alas  for 
collectors,  the  great  White  Knight's  library  was 
sold  on  behalf  of  the  owner's  creditors  in  1819, 
and  it  was  then  that  Earl  Spencer,  after  seven 
years  of  patient  waiting,  possessed  at  last  the 
coveted  treasure,  paying  ;^9i8  for  what  a  few 
years  before  had  sold  for  ;^2  2  6o. 

Much  is  said  about  collectors  which  it  may  be 
well  to  disregard,  because  each  one  who  assumes 

30 


The  Dioersions  of  a  Book-looer 

to  consider  man  as  a  collector,  looks  at  the  sub- 
ject from  his  own  point  of  view,  commonly 
wrong.  It  is  the  Autocrat's  John  all  over  again. 
My  collector  may  be  a  wholly  different  person 
from  your  collector ;  and  John  Doe,  whom  we  all 
know  to  be  an  observant  person,  may  have  his 
own  ideal  which  does  not  resemble  ours  in  the 
slightest  particular.  I  refer  so  often  to  Andrew 
Lang  that  I  may  justly  be  accused  of  Lango- 
mania,  but  at  the  risk  of  such  a  charge  I  am 
tempted  to  quote  from  his  article  on  "  Biblio- 
mania," in  the  Cornhill  Magazine :  "  There  are  col- 
lectors," he  says,  "  who  ought  to  be  sent  to  penal 
servitude.  Their  idea  of  collecting  is  to  buy  a 
living  author's  books,  send  them  to  him,  and  ask 
him  to  write  a  verse  or  '  sentiment '  in  each.  This 
costs  them  nothing,  and,  to  their  feeble  minds, 
appears  to  add  pecuniary  value  to  their  volumes. 
These  caitiffs  are  usually  bred  on  the  other  side 
of  the  Atlantic.  They  ought  to  be  sternly  sup- 
pressed. No  notice  should  be  taken  of  their 
communications. ' ' 

This  denunciation  is  needlessly  ferocious,  and 
I  do  not  believe  that  Mr.  Lang  really  means  it 
to  be  taken  in  sober  earnest.  I  am  sure  that  so 
genial  a  person  could  never  find  it  in  his  heart 
to  indulge  in  serious  vituperation  about  such  a 
harmless  performance.  If  a  reader  wishes  his 
favorite  author  to  impart  a  flavor  of  personality 

31 


The  Diversions  of  a  Book-looer 

to  a  book  by  his  autographic  inscription,  he  is 
not  thinking  of  the  money- value  of  his  treasure. 
I  do  not  ask  authors  to  write  in  my  books,  but  I 
appreciate  the  spirit  of  fondness  which  some- 
times impels  one  to  express  his  affection  and  to 
beg  a  writer  for  a  word  or  line  from  his  own  pen. 
It  costs  the  writer  nothing,  the  effort  is  trifling, 
and  he  is  a  churl  who  refuses ;  it  is  all  a  piece  of 
silly  affectation.  Authors  are  seldom  too  busy 
to  do  these  little  acts  of  kindness.  I  pass  by 
the  sneering  reference  to  benighted  Americans 
as  unworthy  and  gratuitous,  for  one  who  is 
familiar  with  the  habits  and  customs  of  our 
English  cousins  may  well  afford  to  smile  at 
the  intimation  that  we  are  the  only  people 
who  indulge  in  financial  aspirations  about  our 
books.  Mr.  Lang  is  such  a  kindly,  amiable 
person  that  he  must  have  written  this  part 
of  his  essay  in  haste  and  without  due  reflec- 
tion. 

It  is  wise  to  be  indulgent  towards  all  collectors, 
for  they  are  usually  good  fellows,  although  fre- 
quently tiresome.  The  autograph-collector  cares 
little  for  the  gatherer  of  first  editions,  and  the 
accumulator  of  Caxtons  has  scant  sympathy 
with  the  man  of  many  manuscripts.  "Tenny- 
son would  not  give  a  dam  (a  very  small  Indian 
copper  coin)  for  a  letter  in  Adam's  handwriting, 
except  from  curiosity  to  know  in  what  characters 

32 


The   Dioersions   of  a   Book-locer 

Adam  had  expressed  himself."  ^  As  Lord  Ten- 
nyson never  had  an  Adam  autograph  offered  to 
him,  his  indifference  may  have  been  only  a  part 
of  the  pose  he  generally  affected,  for  he  was  above 
all  other  great  men  of  his  time  a  poseur.  As 
most  of  us  who  have  any  sense  of  association 
and  are  not  completely  absorbed  in  the  contem- 
plation of  our  own  greatness  are  collectors  of 
something,  we  must  not  be  unduly  inconsiderate 
of  our  neighbor's  infirmities.  I  can  tolerate  even 
the  enthusiast  who  dotes  on  portraits  of  Hamlet, 
Prince  of  Denmark,  or  of  Napoleon  the  Great. 

Rather  oddly,  King  George  III.,  whom  we 
Americans  are  accustomed  to  think  of  only  as  an 
obstinate  and  tyrannical  monarch,  was  a  "col- 
lector of  the  first  rank,"  and  his  Hbrary,  pre- 
served in  the  British  Museum,  is  a  proof  of  it. 
Moreover,  he  was  well  acquainted  with  his  books. 
Dr.  Johnson,  on  the  contrary ,_  was  not  a  collector, 
although  he  was  a  great  reader.  Goldsmith 
possessed  a  goodly  number  of  books,  a  working 
collection  only.  Gibbon  was  a  collector  who 
loved  his  books,  and  his  library  was  bought  by 
"  Vathek"  Beckford,  who  kept  it  buried  where  it 
was  of  no  use  to  any  one.  Charles  Burney  spent 
nearly  ;/^2 5,000  on  his  library,  which  afterwards 
went  to  the  British  Museum  for  £13,500.     Na- 

1  Locker- Lampson.     My  Confidences,  189. 

3  Z?> 


The  Diuersions   of  a  Book-looer 

poleon  was  a  true  book-lover.  "  I  will  have  fine 
editions  and  handsome  binding,"  he  said.  "I 
am  rich  enough  for  that."  Richard  Heber  was 
a  famous  collector.  He  left  behind  him  over  one 
hundred  thousand  volumes,  stored  in  eight 
houses,  four  in  England  and  four  on  the  Conti- 
nent.    Scott  immortalized  him  in  Marmion: 

Adieu,  dear  Heber,  life  and  health, 
And  store  of  literary  wealth — 

All  of  these  historical  gatherers  of  books  are  de- 
scribed in  Mr.  Wheatley's  pleasant  little  mono- 
graph on  How  to  Form  a  Library. 

Some  very  wise  men  have  left  upon  record 
most  disparaging  comments  concerning  collec- 
tors. Seneca  said :  "  Our  idle  book-hunters  know 
nothing  but  titles  and  bindings ;  their  chests  of 
cedar  and  ivory,  and  the  bookcases  that  fill  the 
bathroom  are  nothing  but  fashionable  furniture, 
and  have  nothing  to  do  with  learning."  It  may 
be  true  that  one  may  love  books  without  being 
a  philosopher,  but  I  cannot  understand  what 
there  is  about  book-collecting  which  leads  men  to 
assail  and  to  denounce  the  innocent  bibliomaniac 
with  such  severity.  From  time  to  time  angry 
persons  burst  forth  in  execrations,  and  abuse  the 
harmless  collector  as  if  he  were  a  dangerous  ene- 
my of  society.  I  have  an  example  at  hand  in  a 
small,  attractive  volume  entitled  Crazy  Book- 

34 


The   Dioersions   of   a  Book-loucr 

Collecting.  There  was  an  odd  Frenchman  in  the 
eighteenth  century  named  BolHoud  Mermet,  sec- 
retary of  the  Academy  of  Lyons,  who  pubHshed, 
in  1 761,  an  essay  on  "Bibliomania,"  full  of  sol- 
emn denunciation.  This  is  a  translation,  printed 
in  1894  by  Duprat,  "  for  the  perusal  and  delecta- 
tion of  the  members  of  the  Grolier  Club  of  New 
York  et  amicorum."  Duprat  tells  us  in  the  pref- 
ace that  Mermet  was  himself  a  collector,  but  that 
he  turned  Philistine  because  of  the  high  cost  of 
the  books  he  coveted.  "Imperceptibly,"  says 
M.  Mermet,  "one  depth  leads  to  another.  He 
that  would  not  listen  to  reason,  nor  abstain  from 
what  it  condemns,  very  soon  loses  his  regard  for 
morality  and  even  religion.  Thus  the  ill-regu- 
lated love  of  books  may  lead  to  libertinism  and 
infidelity." 

By  the  irony  of  fate,  fifty  copies  of  the  trans- 
lation were  printed  on  Japan  paper,  and  my  copy 
has  been  bound  delightfully  in  full  crimson  levant 
by  an  amateur  who  is  so  modest  that  he  would 
never  forgive  me  if  I  disclosed  his  name. 

The  subject  of  book  -  collecting  is  one  which 
tempts  to  diffuseness  and  perhaps  to  tedious 
prolixity.  If  you  set  a  book-collector  going  you 
may  never  be  sure  when  he  will  run  down  and 
cease  to  chatter.  There  is  a  goodly  field  for  one 
who  would  write  of  the  romance  of  book-collect- 
ing, but  Mr.  J.  H.  Slater  has  occupied  so  much  of 

35 


The   Diversions  of   a   Book-looer 

it  in  his  attractive  work'  that  many  years  must 
pass  before  any  one  else  will  have  the  courage  to 
invade  his  territory. 

Perhaps  there  is  a  worse  disease  than  biblio- 
mania, which  may  be  called  bibliophobia.  It  is 
developed  chiefly  from  the  microbe  of  envy,  or 
from  what  may  be  called  imperfect  mental  san- 
itation. There  cannot  be  much  serious  harm  in 
the  collecting  of  books,  provided  it  is  done  hon- 
estly. There  are  three  ways  of  getting  them — 
that  is  to  say,  by  gift,  by  purchase,  and  by  theft ; 
although  some  add  a  fourth  method — to  wit,  by 
borrowing,  which  is  only  a  kind  of  theft.  It  is 
sad  to  reflect  that  the  borrower  almost  always 
looks  upon  the  book  as  if  it  were  an  umbrella,  or 
ferce  natures,  something  in  which  no  right  of 
property  exists.  If  one  is  able  to  abstain  from 
downright  larceny,  he  may  preserve  his  inno- 
cence ;  but  if  he  yields  to  the  temptation  of  bor- 
rowing, he  is  in  danger  of  descending  still  lower 
into  the  depths  of  depravity.  A  kind  friend  once 
insisted  upon  my  taking  home  with  me  a  volume 
from  a  set  of  the  works  of  Thomas  Love  Peacock. 
I  ought  to  have  repelled  him  sternly,  and  request- 
ed him  to  flee  from  me  or  to  get  behind  me ;  but 
in  a  moment  of  weakness  I  gave  way,  and  then — 
I  lost  that  book.     With  the  perverseness  of  in- 

*  The  Romance  of  Book-Collecting,  1898. 
36 


The   Dioersions   of  a   Book-looer 

animate  things,  it  concealed  itself  somewhere  in 
a  closet,  or  behind  a  row  of  plump  octavos,  or 
underneath  a  mass  of  pamphlets,  I  cannot  tell 
where ;  and  I  never  see  my  friend  without  a  lurk- 
ing suspicion  that  he  regards  me  as  fit  for  treason, 
stratagems,  or  the  county  jail,  and  I  dare  not 
cast  a  guilty  glance  at  the  vacant  space  in  his 
Peacock  series  which  seems  to  me  to  be  a  yawn- 
ing chasm.  Lend  not ;  the  thing  you  lend  is  lost. 
The  only  good  thing  I  know  about  the  word  "  bor- 
row" is  that  it  furnishes  the  sole  legitimate  Eng- 
lish rhyme  for  "sorrow"  and  "to-morrow,"  and 
enabled  General  Dix  to  complete  the  first  verse 
of  the  "Dies  Irae"  translation: 

Day  of  anger,  without  morrow, 
Earth  shall  end  in  flame  and  sorrow, 
As  from  saint  and  seer  we  borrow. 

Even  there  it  has  a  forced  and  clumsy  air,  and 
one  feels  that  the  translator  resorted  to  it  in 
sheer  desperation. 

Mr.  Henry  George  Bohn,  to  whose  book  of 
Poetical  Quotations  I  referred  just  now,  and  who 
retained  his  vigor  and  activity  up  to  a  day  or  two 
before  he  died,  in  his  eighty-ninth  year,^  did 
wonderful  work  for  book-lovers,  and  his  useful 
" libraries"  will  always  be  a  monument  to  his  in- 

'  He  died  August  22,  1884. 

37 


The  Dicersions  of  a  Book-locer 

dustry  and  ability.  Nothing  which  he  accom- 
pHshed  will,  however,  be  more  valuable  to  the 
delver  in  English  literature  than  his  edition  of 
Lowndes'  Bibliographer's  Manual,  published  in 
1864.  Lowndes  was  the  son  of  a  publisher,  and 
he  toiled  over  his  task  for  full  fourteen  years.  It 
is  sad  to  remember  that  his  long  course  of  drudg- 
ery made  of  him  a  physical  wreck,  and  that  after 
spending  the  latter  years  of  his  life  as  a  cataloguer 
in  Bohn's  service,  he  died  at  the  early  age  of 
forty-five,  his  eyesight  failing  and  his  mind  de- 
ranged. "  In  his  own  history,"  wrote  Bohn,  "  he 
realized  a  fact  of  which  he  was  always  conscious, 
that  bibliography  has  no  recognized  status  in 
England."  That  may  have  been  true  when  it 
was  written  in  1864,  but  since  that  time  great 
changes  have  taken  place,  and  we  have  had  even 
a  Bibliographical  Account  of  English  Theatrical 
Literature. 


Ill 


Of  back  rows  and  the  reading  of  books;  with  some 
reflections  concerning  Catalogitis  and  bindings. 

IF  a  man  has  any  affection  for  books,  he  has 
his  own  way  about  them.  Like  Montaigne, 
he  seeks  in  the  reading  of  books  only  to  please 
himself  by  an  honest  diversion.  Some  hny  books, 
some  inherit  them,  and  some  have  books  thrust 
upon  them.  There  are  those  who  hunt  for 
prizes  with  eager  ambition,  and  others  who  are 
pursued  by  books,  fairly  driven  into  comers, 
eventually  overwhelmed  by  them.  He  who  hath 
a  sufficiency,  and  may  hide  quietly  among  them 
without  an  itching  greed  to  add  to  their  number, 
deserves  to  be  called  happy;  but  I  have  never 
been  fortunate  enough  to  make  the  acquaintance 
of  such  a  person.  As  for  myself,  I  have  come  to 
that  deplorable  state  when  there  are  double  rows 
upon  the  shelves  and  one  never  knows  where  to 
look  for  the  neglected  warriors  who  have  been 
relegated  ignominiously  to  the  rear  rank.  If 
books  have  feelings,  and  I  am  sure  they  have, 
how  melancholy  must  be  the  lives  of  those  un- 

39 


The   Diversions   of  a  Book-looer 

fortunates  who  are  doomed  to  the  perpetual  ob- 
scurity of  the  back  row.  I  see  now  the  discon- 
solate tops  of  Charles  Lever's  novels,  peering 
wistfully  over  the  smart,  modern  bindings  of  the 
"Outward  Bound"  edition  of  Kipling.  Why  it 
is  called  "Outward  Bound,"  I  cannot  tell;  I  sup- 
posed that  all  books  were  bound  that  way. 

Yet  Charles  O'M alley  is  a  good  story,  full  of 
animal  spirits,  and  it  delighted  the  artless  youth 
of  sixty  years  ago.  The  Irish  dragoon  was  no 
mean  ancestor  of  Mulvaney,  and  I  am  unable  to 
account  for  the  fact  that  he  and  his  brothers, 
Maurice  Tiernay  and  Tom  Burke  are  elbowed  out 
of  the  places  of  honor.  To  be  sure,  O'Malley 
was  given  to  remarks  such  as  "  I  remember  no 
more,"  and  "  I  lost  every  sense  of  consciousness," 
but  there  is  in  him  "  the  salt  of  fun  and  the  zest 
of  life." 

Of  the  thirty  novels  or  more,  only  Harry  Lor- 
requer,  Charles  O'Malley,  and  Tom  Burke  seem  to 
have  any  endurance.  Perhaps  the  genial  Irish- 
man produced  too  much  copy.  The  bread-and- 
butter  consideration  has  a  depressing  effect  upon 
the  artistic  instinct.  I  am  not  sure,  however, 
that  the  forty  volumes  of  Lever  may  not  reap- 
pear in  the  foreground  as  soon  as  I  can  boast  of 
more  shelves.  Every  library  needs  shelves ;  they 
are  good  things  to  have  in  a  library. 

Even  with  multitudes  of  shelves,  it  is  not  al- 
40 


The   Dioersions   of  a  Book-looer 

ways  an  easy  task  to  find  our  books.  Many  care- 
ful and  competent  collectors  have  complained  of 
the  difficulty.  Mr.  Lenox  "often  bought  dupli- 
cates for  immediate  use,  or  to  lend,  rather  than 
grope  for  the  copies  he  knew  to  be  in  the  stacks 
in  some  of  his  store  -  rooms  or  chambers,  not- 
ably Stirling's  Artists  of  Spain,  a  high  -  priced 
book."  '  Mr.  James  Crossley,  whose  hundred 
thousand  volumes  were  stowed  away  in  heaps, 
piled  up  from  the  floors,  was  often  unable  to  lay 
his  hands  upon  books  of  which  he  had  sev- 
eral copies.  Reading  of  the  manner  in  which  he 
kept  his  books,  I  am  not  surprised  at  the  state- 
ment of  his  biographer  that  "  he  never  married." 
My  wife  says — but  never  mind,  what  she  said 
may  as  well  be  suppressed,  although  her  remarks 
were  abundantly  justified. 

Thomas  Rawlinson  had  a  set  of  chambers  at 
Gray's  Inn  which  was  so  filled  with  books  that 
"his  bed  had  to  be  moved  into  the  passage." 
Richard  Heber,  "the  Magnificent,"  must  have 
been  sorely  perplexed  when  he  searched  for  a 
book  in  those  above-mentioned  eight  houses 
overflowing  with  books.  "No  man,"  said  he, 
"  can  comfortably  do  without  three  copies  of  a 
book.  One  he  must  have  for  his  show  copy,  and 
he  will  probably  keep  it  at  his  country-house. 

*  Stevens,  lo. 
41 


The  Diversions  of  a  Book-looer 

Another  he  will  require  for  his  own  use  and  ref- 
erence ;  and  unless  he  is  inclined  to  part  with  this, 
which  is  very  inconvenient,  or  risk  the  injury  of 
his  best  copy,  he  must  needs  have  a  third  at  the 
service  of  his  friends."  Of  him,  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Dyce  said,  significantly:  "He  was  the  most  lib- 
eral of  book-collectors :  I  never  asked  him  for  the 
loan  of  a  volume,  which  he  could  lay  his  hands 
on,  he  did  not  immediately  send  me."  The  spe- 
cies of  library  dear  to  Heber  and  to  Rawlinson 
is  little  in  vogue  in  these  modern  times,  but  we 
have  our  own  troubles. 

These  are  days  of  profuse  book-production, 
and  the  mind  is  bewildered  by  the  vast  fields 
which  stretch  out  before  the  book-lover's  vision. 
The  enthusiast  is  compelled  to  limit  himself  in 
his  quest  of  volumes,  perplexed  in  discovering 
any  rule  of  selection.  It  is  easy  to  say  that  one 
should  avoid  the  worthless  and  the  ephemeral, 
and  that  the  deserving  books  are  comparatively 
few.  Surely,  there  are  not  many  great  books. 
"  It  could  never  have  been  intended,"  said  Ham- 
erton, "  that  everybody  should  write  great  books," 
although  I  feel  about  the  matter  very  much  as 
the  famous  person  felt  about  his  cigars,  when  he 
said  that  some  cigars  are  better  than  others,  but 
that  no  cigars  are  bad. 

I  am  always  amused  at  the  stolid  igno- 
42 


The  Dioersions   of  a  Book-looer 

ranee  of  the  non- bookish  individual  who  tells 
you  that  he  wonders  why  you  want  so  many 
books  when  you  can  never  read  them  all,  as 
if  the  chief  thing  about  a  book  is  the  reading 
of  it.  We  do  not  gather  multitudes  of  books 
to  read  them,  my  Boeotian  friend;  the  idea  is 
a  childish  delusion.  "In  early  life,"  says  Wal- 
ter Bagehot,  "there  is  an  opinion  that  the  ob- 
vious thing  to  do  with  a  horse  is  to  ride  it ;  with 
a  cake,  to  eat  it;  with  a  sixpence,  to  spend  it." 
A  few  boyish  persons  carry  this  further,  and 
think  that  the  natural  thing  to  do  with  a  book 
is  to  read  it.  The  mere  reading  of  a  rare  book 
is  a  puerility,  an  idiosyncrasy  of  adolescence ;  it 
is  the  ownership  of  the  book  which  is  the  matter 
of  distinction.  The  collector  of  coins  does  not 
accumulate  his  treasures  for  the  purpose  of  ul- 
timately expending  them  in  the  market-place. 
The  lover  of  postage-stamps,  small  as  his  horizon 
may  be,  does  not  hoard  his  colored  bits  of  paper 
with  intent  to  employ  them  in  the  mailing  of 
letters.  Truly,  the  reading  of  a  first  folio  of 
Shakespeare,  or  of  a  first  edition  of  Izaak  Walton, 
or  of  the  Gutenberg  Bible,  would  be  almost  a  des- 
ecration. Old  Thomas  Dekker  had  a  dawning  of 
inspiration  when  he  said  that  a  wise  man  poor 
is  like  a  sacred  book  that's  never  read.  When 
some  one  complained  to  Bedford  that  a  book 
which  he  had  bound  did  not  shut  properly,  he  ex- 

43 


The   Dioersions  of  a  Book-locer 

claimed,  "  Why,  bless  me,  sir,  you've  been  read- 
ing it!"  The  notion  that  we  should  not  possess 
all  of  the  Kelmscotts,  the  Groliers,  the  first  edi- 
tions of  this  or  that  author,  or  the  treasures  of 
libraries  like  those  which  were  of  Lefferts  and 
Irwin,  without  the  intention  of  going  over  their 
contents  page  by  page,  would  never  occur  to  any 
one  but  the  being  who  gains  his  knowledge  of 
books  from  the  pages  of  some  of  our  literary 
newspapers,  in  whose  columns  appear  the  out- 
givings of  those  unaccountable  people  who  ask 
the  editor  to  print  a  list  of  Marion  Crawford's 
novels,  or  who  would  be  glad  to  exchange  a  set 
of  The  Waverley  Magazine  for  Poe's  Tamerlane 
(first  edition)  or  an  autograph  letter  of  Daniel 
De  Foe.  There  are,  indeed,  authors  who  are  fa- 
mous because  they  are  never  read.  Lowell  says 
of  Klopstock  that  he  "attained  the  immortality 
of  unreadableness  "  ;  and  Lessing  says  of  the  same 
seraphic  fanatic: 

Who  will  not  mighty  Klopstock  praise, 
Will  everybody  read  him?     Nay! 

There  are  many  other  examples  of  the  great 
unreadable.  One  of  them  is  William  Prynne,  of 
whom  Wood  writes:  "I  verily  believe  that,  if 
rightly  computed,  he  wrote  a  sheet  for  every  day 
of  his  life,  reckoning  from  the  time  he  came  to 
the  use  of  reason  and  the  state  of  man."     He 

44 


The   Diversions   of   a   Book-looer 

lived  to  be  sixty-nine,  and  if  he  came  to  reason 
at  the  age  of  twenty-one — an  hypothesis  which 
is,  perhaps,  over  -  sanguine,  considering  the  or- 
dinary "state  of  man"  —  this  means  that  he 
produced  upward  of  seventeen  thousand  five 
hundred  and  twenty  sheets,  between  which  any 
normal  person  might  succumb  to  slumber.  Au- 
brey, in  his  Letters  from  the  Bodleian  Library, 
says  of  Prynne  that  "about  every  three  hours 
his  man  was  to  bring  him  a  roll  and  a  pot  of  ale 
to  refocillate  his  wasted  spirits. ' '  Aubrey,  whom 
Richard  Garnett  calls  an  "immature  Boswell," 
deserves  a  medal  for  that  charming  word  "refo- 
cillate." Every  one  would  rejoice  in  the  pos- 
session of  a  set  of  Prynne's  works,  but  no  one 
would  ever  have  the  hardihood  to  read  them. 
One  might  as  well  attempt  the  Jesuit  Relations 
or  the  Official  Records  of  the  Rebellion. 

There  are  delightful  hours  when  we  may  lean 
back  in  our  easy-chairs  and  allow  our  eyes  to 
rove  lovingly  over  the  backs  of  the  precious  ten- 
ants of  our  shelves ;  not  shut  off  from  us  by  bar- 
riers of  inhospitable  glass,  for  glazed  bookcases, 
Elia  justly  says,  are  heartless;  resting  here  and 
there  on  a  Derome,  or  a  Cobden-Sanderson,  a 
Prideaux  or  a  Lortic,  a  masterpiece  of  Tout  or  of 
Riviere,  or  of  Zaehnsdorf,  or  of  our  own  Mat- 
thews or  Bradstreet.     The  binding  appeals  to 

45 


The  Diversions  of   a  Book-looer 

the  soul  of  the  book-lover.  Did  not  Pepys  say 
(May  15,  1660),  "After  that  to  a  bookseller's, 
and  bought  for  the  love  of  the  binding  three 
books  —  the  French  Psalms  in  four  parts,  Ba- 
con's Organon,  and  Farnab  Rhetor"?^  I  shall  say 
more  about  bindings  hereafter.  It  is  good  to 
fondle  a  pretty  binding,  and  it  is  delightful  to 
take  down  a  well-dressed  book  and  caress  it,  but 
it  would  be  very  like  a  profanation  actually  to 
read  it. 

It  pleases  me  to  learn  that  my  hostility  to 
glass  -  doored  bookcases  is  not  a  mere  sentimen- 
tality, but  rests  upon  a  more  solid  foundation. 
The  late  Mr.  Blades,  in  his  Enemies  of  Books, 
said :  "  It  is  a  mistake  to  imagine  that  keeping  the 
best-bound  volumes  in  a  glass-doored  bookcase 
is  a  preservative.  The  damp  air  will  certainly 
penetrate,  and  as  the  absence  of  ventilation  will 
assist  formation  of  mould,  the  books  will  be 
worse  off  than  if  they  had  been  placed  in  open 
shelves."  But  Andrew  Lang  insists  that  "the 
more  precious  and  beautifully  bound  treasures 
will  naturally  be  stored  in  a  case  with  closely 
fitting  glass  doors."  "  He  adds,  in  a  note :  "  And, 
with  all  deference  to  Mr.  Blades,  glass  doors  do 
seem  to  be  useful  in  excluding  dust."  Do  they? 
I  am  not  so  sure  of  that.     A  good,  palpable  dust 

*  Index  Rltetoricus,  by  Thomas  Farnaby. 
^  The  Library,  35. 

46 


The  Dioersions   of  a   Book-looer 

settles  upon  the  open  shelves,  but  there  is  a  finer, 
subtler,  and  more  destructive  dust  which  insinu- 
ates itself  in  some  mysterious  way  behind  the 
closed  doors,  and  eats  its  way  into  the  very  body 
of  the  book.  On  the  whole,  I  shall  pin  my  faith 
to  Mr.  Blades. 

I  must  admit  that  I  have  no  valid  title  to  the 
honored  name  of  collector,  for  the  appellation 
carries  with  it  the  suggestion  of  a  wise  and  dis- 
criminating man  who  gathers  the  old  and  the 
rare,  who  selects  only  the  best  examples,  and 
who  knows  precisely  what  he  wants ;  whereas,  I 
do  not  aspire  to  Caxtons,  I  never  know  exactly 
what  I  want,  and,  like  most  men,  I  have  never 
adopted  any  system.  It  is  only  by  rule,  order, 
and  the  exercise  of  a  cool,  deliberate  judgment 
that  one  may  ever  possess  a  true  collection.  Most 
of  us  are  victims  of  the  malady  which  Eugene 
Field  appropriately  called  "Catalogitis."  I  can 
appreciate  Macbeth's  remark:  "Ay,  in  the  cata- 
logue ye  go  for  men."  The  catalogues  come  in 
such  lavish  profusion,  they  are  so  enticing,  they 
arouse  so  skilfully  the  desire  for  possession,  that 
the  unwary  person  is  unable  to  refrain  from  in- 
cautious investment.  They  give  such  alluring 
descriptions  of  the  merchandise,  they  glow  with 
such  mellifluous  praise  of  the  quartos  and  octa- 
vos, they  seduce  so  delicately  and  deliciously, 

47 


The   Diversions  of  a   Book-looer 

that  the  credulous  purchaser  becomes  a  wilHng 
and,  indeed,  an  enthusiastic  victim.  He  yields 
to  the  insinuating  comments  "  very  rare,"  "  curi- 
ous," "almost  impossible,"  "unique  in  this 
state" — it  is  all  as  fascinating  as  a  lottery,  and 
the  order  goes  forth  without  an  instant  of  hesi- 
tation. When  anticipation  becomes  reality,  and 
the  parcels  are  opened  with  trembling  alacrity, 
there  is  an  exquisite  moment  of  expectancy,  and 
then  commonly  disappointment.  It  is  a  painful 
truth,  for  which  I  have  no  satisfactory  explana- 
tion, but  nothing  in  my  experience  ever  quite 
comes  up  to  the  description  in  the  catalogue.  I 
do  not  believe  that  there  is  any  intentional  mis- 
representation in  most  cases,  and  when,  after 
a  melancholy  inspection,  I  have  gone  back  to 
the  catalogue,  I  have  invariably  found  that  there 
was  not  a  word,  line,  or  syllable  which  might 
fairly  be  called  untrue.  The  fault  was  altogeth- 
er in  the  imagination  of  the  sanguine  buyer. 

The  word  "  curious"  is  strangely  beguiling,  but 
its  application  is  by  no  means  a  matter  of  cer- 
tainty ;  for  what  one  man  may  think  curious  an- 
other may  regard  as  ordinary  and  uninteresting. 
I  am  not  referring  to  a  certain  department  of 
literature  which  is  not  to  be  mentioned  in  the 
presence  of  Mrs.  Boffin,  for  that  is  a  field  into 
which  it  is  prudent  not  to  venture.  I  was  once 
entrapped  by  the  title  ''Essay  on  Burns,  i2mo, 

48 


The   Diversions  of  a   Book-looer 

old  calf,  curious";  and  after  purchase  found  my- 
self the  owner  of  an  ancient  Essay  on  Burns 
and  Scalds,  by  some  long-forgotten  ^sculapius.' 
Frederic  Harrison  pertinently  says:  "There  are 
curious  and  worthless  creatures  enough  in  any 
pot-house,  all  day  long;  and  there  is  incessant 
talk  in  omnibus,  train,  or  street,  by  we  know  not 
whom,  about  we  care  not  what.  Yet  if  a  printer 
or  a  bookseller  can  be  induced  to  make  this  gab- 
ble as  immortal  as  print  and  publication  can 
make  it,  then  it  straightway  is  literature,  and  in 
due  time  becomes  'curious.'"  I  was  impressed 
not  long  ago  by  a  suggestion — I  cannot  recall  its 
origin — that  if  any  man  should  only  make  a  book 
about  his  own  personal  recollections  of  the  things 
he  had  himself  seen  and  done,  without  reserve, 
telling  the  whole  truth  and  the  exact  truth,  it 
would  be  charming  to  any  reader.  Pepys  may 
be  cited  as  a  brilliant  instance. 

There  is  another  word  which  appears  to  be  a 
stumbling-block  to  the  unwary,  and  that  is  the 
word  "uncut."  The  casual  purchaser  is  some- 
times deceived  by  it,  for  he  thinks  that  it  means 
that  the  leaves  have  not  been  severed  by  the 
paper-knife.  I  have  read  with  much  glee  divers 
indignant  letters  in  the  very  interesting  "  Sat- 

*  Since  this  was  printed,  in  a  magazine,  I  have  seen  a  sim- 
ilar story  in  a  New  York  journal.  But  my  story  is  true,  and 
the  newspaper  story  is  a  fiction. 

4  49 


The  Dioersions  of  a  Book-looer 

urday  Review"  of  one  of  our  best  New  York 
journals,  in  which  the  barbarian  writers  have 
denounced  the  uncut,  and  have  assailed  in  vigor- 
ous but  misguided  phrases  those  who  prefer  to 
have  their  books  in  that  condition.  Henry  Ste- 
vens tells  us  that  even  such  a  famous  collector  as 
James  Lenox,  founder  of  the  splendid  library 
into  whose  magnificent  mysteries  so  few  of  us 
dare  to  penetrate,  was  misled  by  the  word  "un- 
cut," and  chided  Stevens  for  buying  an  "  uncut" 
book  whose  pages  were  all  open.     He  says : 

"Again,  when  his  tastes  had  grown  into  the 
mysteries  of  uncut  leaves,  he  returned  a  very 
rare,  early  New  England  tract,  expensively 
bound,  because  it  did  not  answer  the  description 
of  '  uncut '  in  the  invoice,  for  the  leaves  had  mani- 
festly been  cut  open  and  read,"  When  it  was 
explained  to  him  that  in  England  the  term  uncut 
signified  only  that  the  edges  were  not  trimmed, 
he  shelved  the  rarity  with  the  remark  that  he 
"learned  something  every  day."  I  cannot  re- 
sist the  temptation  to  quote  from  Stevens  one 
more  paragraph  about  Mr.  Lenox:  "He  kept  a 
great  Spanish  rarity  with  margins  cut  close,  be- 
cause a  German  youth  who  desired  to  practise 
writing  English  to  me  had  described  it  as  'per- 
fect, although  very  closely  circumcised.' " 

The  word  "uncut"  recalls  to  me  a  small  duo- 
decimo of  only  one  hundred  and  forty-two  pages, 

50 


The   Dioersions  of  a  Book-looer 

which  I  picked  up  at  a  book-stall  in  London.  It 
is  a  Life  of  Andrew  Jackson,  by  William  Cobbett, 
"  M.P.  for  Oldham,"  with  a  portrait  of  the  General 
and  a  view  of  the  battle  of  New  Orleans  deserv- 
ing of  a  place  in  the  pages  of  Punch,  supplement- 
ed by  a  touching  representation  of  two  individ- 
uals hanging  upon  palpable  gallows — Arbuthnot 
and  Ambrister,  I  should  say,  except  that  one  of 
the  hanged  gentlemen  is  arrayed  in  a  costume 
which  suggests  either  an  American  Indian  or  a 
chorus-girl.  It  was  printed  in  London  in  1834, 
and  on  one  of  its  fly-leaves  there  are  inscribed 
these  words:  "Job  Longley's  Book,  Hampstead 
Norris  Berks,  1841.  Like  all  Cobbett's  works, 
interesting  and  well  written."  How  Job  knew 
this  I  cannot  make  out,  for  the  leaves  have  never 
been  subjected  to  the  paper-knife,  and  are  as  ab- 
solutely uncut  as  a  copy  of  the  Athenceum  fresh 
from  the  press.  There  is  one  remark  in  the  pref- 
ace which  I  have  heard  in  other  forms  at  St. 
Patrick's  Day  dinners:  "I  send  this  book  forth 
amongst  the  people  of  this  whole  kingdom,  to 
prove  to  them  that  this  ill-treated  Ireland,  this 
trampled-upon  Ireland,  has  produced  the  great- 
est soldier  and  the  greatest  statesman  whose 
name  has  ever  yet  appeared  upon  the  records  of 
valor  and  of  wisdom." 

No  lover  of  books  should  be  without  the  Rec- 
ollections of  Mr.  James  Lenox,  of  New  York,  and 

51 


The  Dioersions  of  a  Book-looer 

the  Formation  of  his  Library,  which  Stevens  pub- 
lished in  1886.  My  copy  has  in  it  an  autograph 
presentation  by  the  author,  and  a  letter  of  Mr, 
Lenox  to  that  celebrated  bookseller  of  New  York, 
William  Gowans,  of  Nassau  Street.  Everybody 
knows  now  that  a  book  is  uncut  when  its  sheets 
have  not  been  trimmed  by  the  binder  and  the 
margins  are  all  of  that  delightful  width  which 
appeals  to  the  genuine  book  -  hunter.  I  am 
amazed  when  I  read  in  the  Recollections  of  the  in- 
dustrious and  painstaking  Percy  Fitzgerald  the 
grave  statement  that  the  uncut  book  is  valuable 
because  it  lends  itself  to  binding.  That  is  in  a 
certain  sense  undeniably  true,  but  the  uncut  book 
has  attractions  far  beyond  the  mere  physical  con- 
dition of  "bindability,"  if  that  word  is  permissi- 
ble. Perhaps  the  Caxton  Club  of  Chicago  is  wise 
in  describing  its  productions  as  "with  edges  un- 
trimmed."  Even  a  Philistine  ought  to  be  able 
to  comprehend  that  description,  although  I  once 
knew  a  man  who  supposed  that  a  book  "bound 
in  boards"  had  sides  composed  of  planking. 

There  are  books  of  that  sort,  although  they  are 
not  common.  Some  years  ago  I  brought  over 
from  Denmark  an  illuminated  musical  manu- 
script of  the  fourteenth  century  which  was  liter- 
ally bound  in  boards,  the  wooden  covers  fully 
half  an  inch  thick  and  the  back  studded  with 
iron  nails.     The  intelligent  custom-house  person 

5- 


The   Dioersions  of  a   Book-looer 

who  greets  us  hospitably  upon  our  return  home, 
sagely  classed  it  as  "old  furniture,"  imposing 
duties  accordingly,  the  amount  whereof  I  ulti- 
mately succeeded  in  recovering  from  our  free  and 
enlightened  government,  much  to  my  astonish- 
ment. I  have  often  wished  that  I  could  have 
studied  the  convolutions  of  the  brain  of  that  cus- 
toms man,  supposing  him  to  have  been  possessed 
of  that  useful  adjunct  to  the  duty-collector.  How 
wonderful  must  they  have  been,  and  how  valu- 
able to  the  student  of  the  intellectual  qualities  of 
idiots!  What  sort  of  an  article  of  furniture  did 
he  suppose  my  manuscript  to  be?  No  one  will 
ever  find  out. 

There  are  many  sorts  of  bindings,  and,  no  mat- 
ter how  high  may  be  our  confidence  in  our  wis- 
dom about  books,  we  are  none  of  us  too  rational 
or  sedate  not  to  be  led  into  extravagance  by  a 
peculiarly  beautiful  calf  or  morocco  or  by  an  ex- 
quisite design.  There  is  some  pleasure  in  hav- 
ing one's  books,  like  those  of  Emerson,  described 
by  M.  Auguste  Langel  in  his  diary,  "  almost  all  in 
paper  covers  and  showing  marks  of  use."  Very 
few  books  are  worthy  of  full-crushed  levant,  and 
full-calf  is  apt  to  deteriorate  in  the  warm  pre- 
cincts of  our  libraries.  Nothing  in  the  way  of 
binding  is,  however,  as  odious  as  what  is  called 
"law-calf"  or  "  law-sheep  "  of  that  wretched  un- 
derdone pie -crust  color  familiar  to  the  toiling 

53 


The  Dirersions  of  a  Book-loDer 

attorney.  Even  if  it  is  really  a  product  of  the 
harmless  calf  or  the  innocent  sheep,  it  deserves 
severe  censure.  Modem  irreverence  for  tradi- 
tions is  coming  to  our  rescue,  and  we  are  now 
having  our  law-books  bound  in  a  durable  way,  so 
that  they  do  not  rot  or  besmear  their  ruins  upon 
the  lawyer's  customary  suit  of  solemn  black,  I 
do  not  despair  of  seeing  the  Reports  and  the 
Statutes  clothed  in  substantial  boards  or  in  neat 
cloth,  gilt,  with  ornamental  designs,  and  printed 
on  that  light  but  durable  paper  which  is  coming 
into  common  use.  There  is  no  good  reason  why 
a  professional  book  should  be  uncomfortable, 
hideous,  and  awkwardly  oppressive.  It  is  so 
stupid  that  it  ought  to  be  relieved  of  utter  ugli- 
ness of  aspect. 

As  most  of  us  are  not  rich  enough  to  indulge  in 
the  luxuiy  of  full  morocco,  which,  indeed,  is  not 
appropriate  to  all  books,  we  must  be  satisfied  with 
half -bindings,  and  they  may  be  both  pretty  and 
useful,  although  I  often  wonder  why  the  binders 
persist  in  using  such  unattractive  paper  or  cloth 
for  the  sides.  In  order  to  get  a  suitable  color, 
one  must  stand  over  the  binder  "with  a  drawn 
sword,"  as  the  venerable  General  Aaron  Ward,  of 
Westchester  County,  used  to  say  about  the  pru- 
dent man  and  his  sixpences.  Old  Matthews,  New 
York's  famous  bookbinder,  was  incorrigible  in 
this  respect,  no  doubt  because  he  scorned  half- 

54 


The   Dioersions  of  a  Book-looer 

bindings  and  considered  them,  as  Mr.  Lang's 
Oxford  tutor  did,  pure  fiLKpoTrpiireia,  or  shabbi- 
ness.  But  with  care  we  may  make  a  half-bound 
book  a  thing  of  beauty  and  a  cherished  posses- 
sion, I  detest  the  custom  of  dressing  books  in 
what  is  known  as  "half -vellum,"  for  the  ghostly 
pallor  is  distasteful,  and  after  a  few  months  the 
exterior  is  soiled  and  faded,  resembling  a  gen- 
tleman in  a  suit  of  white  flannel  too  long  with- 
held from  the  laundry.  I  always  feel  a  desire 
to  wash  my  large  paper  editions  of  Lowell  and 
of  Longfellow,  and  it  will  not  be  long  before  the 
alumni  edition  of  Woodrow  Wilson's  History  of 
the  American  People,  with  its  fascinating  text 
and  its  altogether  astonishing  and  ill-assorted 
illustrations,  will  require  a  judicious  applica- 
tion of  the  cleansing-sponge.  As  to  color,  my 
artist  friend  scorns  the  blue  and  the  black, 
and  greets  with  loud  acclaim  the  olive,  the 
brilliant  green,  and  the  assertive  scarlet.  We 
are  instructed  by  M.  Ambrose  Firmin  -  Didot 
that  the  Iliad  should  be  clothed  in  red  and  the 
Odyssey  in  blue,  because  the  old  Greek  rhapso- 
dists  wore  scarlet  when  they  recited  the  "Wrath 
of  Achilles,"  and  blue  when  they  chanted  of  the 
"Return  of  Odysseus;"^  and  he  thinks  that  the 
writings  of  great  churchmen  should  be  bound  in 

*  The  Library  (Lang),  68. 

55 


The   Diversions  of  a  Book-loDer 

violet,  the  works  of  philosophers  in  black  moroc- 
co, and  certain  poets  in  rose  color.  To  the  man 
of  moderate  culture  all  this  fanciful  talk  seems 
to  be  pure  nonsense.  It  is  like  the  euphuistic 
balderdash  of  John  Lyly  wherein  Sidney  found  a 
reason  for  complaining  of  "  the  dainty  wits  en- 
am'ling  with  py'd  flowers  their  thoughts  of  gold," 
and  of  those  who  "with  strange  similes  enrich 
each  line."  The  colors  of  my  books  I  choose 
because  I  like  the  effect,  and  I  see  no  good  reason 
why  Bancroft  should  not  be  clad  in  scarlet,  or 
Hawthorne  in  pale  olive,  or  Dickens  in  solid 
blue. 

A  buckram  binding  is  perhaps  the  most  stolid- 
ly useful,  and  as  satisfactory  as  any  other  sort 
considering  the  subject  from  a  point  of  view  pure- 
ly utilitarian.  It  may  be  made  neat  and  charm- 
ing, and  what  is  technically  called  a  Roxburghe 
binding  is  comfortable  as  well  as  ornamental.  I 
wish  I  could  become  enthusiastic  over  the  Grolier 
Club  bindings,  but  I  am  unable  to  admire  them, 
much  as  I  honor  those  who  devise  them. 

Cloth,  of  course,  is  endurable  if  it  be  plain  and 
solid,  but  it  lends  itself  to  atrocities  in  decoration, 
and  it  is  only  a  conventional  binding,  fit  for  books 
of  daily  use — the  proletariat  of  books — and  is  al- 
together unworthy  of  the  nobility.  The  English 
cloth  bindings  are  meant  only  to  be  discarded 
for  better  ones,  if  the  books  themselves  turn  out 

56 


The  DiDersions   of   a  Book-locer 

to  be  worth  keeping.  For  any  but  reading  pur- 
poses, a  cloth-bound  book  might  as  well  be  un- 
bound. 

Many  revere  books  chiefly  because  of  their 
bindings.  There  is  an  interesting  proof  of  it  in 
Libraries  and  Founders  of  Libraries,  by  Mr.  Ed- 
ward Edwards.  Anne  of  Denmark  gave  to  her 
son  Charles  a  number  of  books  bound  in  crim- 
son and  purple  velvet.  Abraham  van  der  Dort, 
keeper  of  Charles's  cabinet,  made  a  catalogue  of 
these  treasures  (Harleian  MSS.,  4718),  and  his 
skill  as  a  cataloguer  may  be  estimated  by  these 
examples : 

"  Im'pris  19  books  in  Crimson  velvet,  whereof  18  are 
bound  4to  and  ye  19th  in  folio,  adorned  with  some  sil- 
ver guilt  plate,  and  ye  two  claspes  wanting.  Given  to 
ye  King  by  Queen  Ann  of  famous  memory.  Item, 
more  15  books,  13  thereof  being  in  long  4to  and  ye  2 
lesser  cover'd  over  also  with  purple  velvet.  Given  also 
to  ye  King  by  ye  said  Queen  Ann." 

It  is  said  that  "a  well-bound  book  mocks  at 
time,"  but  experience  shows  that  Russia  leather 
is  by  no  means  enduring.  On  the  whole,  I  am 
faithful  to  morocco,  the  favorite  of  the  Arabs, 
who,  according  to  Mr.  Du  Bois,  were  the  original 
artistic  bookbinders.  "  Copies  of  their  Moal- 
lakat,"  he  tells  us,  "were  covered  with  various- 
colored  morocco,  elaborately  tooled  and  stamped 
in  exquisite  patterns,  long  ere  the  pillagers  of  the 

57 


The  Dioersions  of  a  Book-looer 

library  of  the  Caliphs  at  Cairo  transformed — 
horresco  refer  ens — into  shoes  the  most  valuable 
bindings  of  that  library."  We  may  be  thankful 
that  about  the  sixteenth  century  the  fashion  of 
leather  supplanted  the  fashion  of  gold  and  silver 
and  baser  metals,  which,  however  beautiful,  must 
have  been  hard,  clumsy,  and  expensive. 


IV 

Concerning  some  books  of  small  importance. 

THE  intelligent  reader  may  treat  this  chap- 
ter as  suppressed :  like  the  famous  Chap- 
ter Lxxxviii.  of  the  third  volume  of  James 
Bryce's  masterpiece,  The  American  Common- 
wealth, which  dealt  with  "The  Tweed  Ring  in 
New  York  City."  It  was  written  by  Mr.  Frank 
J.  Goodnow,  and  it  contained  some  breezy  but 
sadly  inaccurate  remarks,  based  upon  an  im- 
perfect knowledge  of  the  facts,  and  characterized 
by  the  blunders  of  an  honest  writer  who  gets 
his  information  from  purely  ephemeral  sources. 
Among  other  things,  it  made  a  serious  accusa- 
tion against  an  honored  relative  of  mine,  the  late 
John  Thompson  Hoffman,  by  accusing  him  of 
being  blinded  by  ambition  to  the  acts  of  his  po- 
litical friends  and  dissuaded  from  opposing  the 
"Ring"  by  the  promise  of  election  as  Governor 
of  the  State,  although  it  was  conceded  that  "he 
was  personally  honest."  Mr.  Goodnow  meant  to 
tell  the  exact  truth,  but  I  happen  to  know  a  good 
deal  about  the  facts,  and  do  not  derive  my  knowl- 

59 


The    Dioersions  of  a  Book-locer 

edge  from  that  most  untrustworthy  source,  the 
popular  impressions  of  the  time ;  wherefore,  I  am 
able  to  say  that  the  insinuations  against  Gov- 
ernor Hoffman  were  without  foundation,  and 
those  who  knew  the  man  will  testify  that  while  he 
may  have  been  deceived  by  his  political  friends, 
no  one  could  have  tempted  him  successfully  to 
condone  a  dishonest  act.  I  will  not  discuss  it 
further.  There  were  also  accusations  against 
my  old  friend,  in  whose  office  I  studied  the  ru- 
diments of  the  law,  Mayor  A.  Oakey  Hall.  My 
impression  is  that  the  writer  thought  that  the 
gay  and  versatile  Oakey  was  dead;  but  Oakey 
was  very  much  alive,  and  he  sued  Mr.  Bryce  for 
libel.  Mr.  Bryce  acted  in  a  most  dignified  and 
honorable  manner,  and  cancelled  the  chapter, 
paying  the  expenses  of  the  litigation,  which,  in 
England,  are  always  heavy,  and  demonstrating 
his  manly  fairness  and  his  earnest  desire  to  rec- 
tify any  wrong  which  might  have  been  done  in- 
advertently. 

The  intelligent  reader  aforesaid  may  deal  with 
this  chapter  as  he  usually  does  with  the  descrip- 
tions of  scenery  which  the  novelist  often  gives  us 
just  before  the  crucial  point  in  the  plot ;  in  other 
words,  he  may  skip  it.  Hamerton  thought  that 
the  art  of  reading  was  "to  skip  judiciously," 
Another  writer  tells  us  oracularly  that  "the  art 
of  skipping  is,  in  a  word,  the  art  of  noting  and 

60 


The   Dioersions   of  a  Book-looer 

shunning  that  which  is  bad  or  frivolous  or  mis- 
leading or  unsuitable  for  one's  individual  needs." 
That  is  a  sort  of  comical  commonplace,  which 
we  are  apt  to  find  in  books  of  the  Book-lover 
and  Literary  Educator  kind.  Why  not  say  that 
the  science  of  skipping — it  is  not  an  art — lies  in 
omitting  to  read  that  which  you  find  dreary  and 
uninteresting,  and  let  it  go  at  that?  Almost 
every  one  skips  wisely,  except,  perhaps,  one  ex- 
cellent lawyer  of  German  descent  who  read  the 
Revised  Statutes  of  New  York  from  beginning  to 
end,  including  the  descriptions  of  the  boundaries 
of  the  counties  and  all  the  rules  and  regulations 
of  the  highways.  When  he  entered  an  office  as 
a  student  he  was  asked  by  the  senior  what  he 
had  read,  and  he  thundered,  in  those  unmistak- 
able accents  so  well  known  to  New  York  law- 
yers, "  I  have  read  de  Revised  Statoots — all  of 
'em — read  'em  all!"  We  who  are  acquainted 
with  his  efficient  work  on  the  bench  appreciate 
the  sincere  and  earnest  devotion  of  this  con- 
scientious jurist  to  his  chosen  task,  and  we  are 
able  to  understand  the  love  of  his  profession 
which  led  him  to  spend  time  over  even  the  tedi- 
ous details  of  the  law. 

This  chapter  should  be  read  only  by  a  kindly 
disposed  friend  whom  I  take  into  my  confidence ; 
all  others  will  please  to  abstain  from  perusing 
it.     I  have  already  disclaimed  any  right  to  be 

6i 


The   Diversions   of  a  Book-loDer 

regarded  as  a  book  -  collector,  for  among  my 
possessions  I  can  muster  only  a  few  volumes  of 
moderate  distinction.  There  have  been  men 
who  contented  themselves  with  exactly  a  hun- 
dred books,  all  of  them  entitled  to  the  blue  rib- 
bon. I  have  not  envied  them,  for  I  much  prefer 
a  thousand  volumes  of  less  importance.  I  have 
no  sympathy  with  the  scribbler  who  says:  "I 
have  a  library  of  fifty  or  of  a  hundred  volumes, 
all  relating  to  my  chosen  line  of  thought,  and 
not  a  single  inferior  or  worthless  volume  among 
them."  He  must  be  a  narrow  and  conceited 
person — talking  about  his  chosen  line  of  thought, 
as  if  it  had  any  serious  importance.  If  he  could 
read  a  few  hundred  volumes  relating  to  some 
other  line  of  thought  and  quite  "inferior,"  he 
would  surely  become  a  broader  and  a  better  man. 
The  person  who  thinks  he  is  right  in  confining 
himself  to  a  hundred  books  of  a  particular  sort 
is  scarcely  worthy  to  be  called  a  lover  of  books, 
and  his  capacity  must  be  exceedingly  small. 

"  Mr.  Disraeli,"  said  a  discriminating  writer,  a 
few  years  ago,  "was  not  a  bibliophile  —  that  is, 
he  never  collected  a  hundred  rare  books  at  a 
fabulous  price,  locked  them  up,  looked  at  them 
now  and  then,  and  never  read  them."  I  am  not 
assenting  to  the  description  of  a  bibliophile,  but 
I  concur  heartily  in  denouncing  that  especial 
kind  of  bibliophile  who,  in  my  judgment,  is  not 

62 


The   Dioersions  of  a  Book-locer 

deserving  of  the  name.  One  can  scarcely  be- 
come intimate  or  familiar  with  one  of  those  por- 
tentous prizes  whose  titles  are  always  printed  in 
capital  letters  in  the  catalogue;  but  you  can  be 
very  chummy  with  even  an  ordinary  edition  of 
Elia  or  with  a  modest,  brown-covered  copy  of 
the  poems  of  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.  I  am 
rather  sorry  to  see  a  first  edition  of  the  Autocrat 
dressed  smartly  by  the  Club  Bindery,  for  it  seems 
to  put  a  barrier  between  us. 

Almost  every  man  feels  the  need  of  owning  at 
least  one  copy  of  The  Compleat  Angler.  Mine  is 
only  the  fourth  edition,  printed  for  R.  Harriot, 
and  advertised  "  to  be  sold  by  Charles  Harper  at 
his  shop,  the  next  door  to  the  Crown  near 
Sergeant's  Inn  in  Chancery- Lane,  1668,"  with 
engraved  title  and  cuts  by  Lombart.  It  is  a 
book  to  be  cherished  affectionately,  but  I  know 
of  no  especial  merit  about  the  fourth  edition, 
imless  it  be  the  spelling,  which  may  not  be 
peculiar  to  that  edition.  The  dear  old  "  Milk- 
maid's Song"  appears  in  this  guise: 

Come  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love, 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove 
That  valleys,  groves,  or  hills,  or  fields. 
Or  woods,  and  steepy  mountains  yeilds. 
Where  we  will  sit  upon  the  Rocks, 
And  see  the  Shepheards  feed  our  flocks, 
By  shallow  Rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Mellodious  birds  sing  Madrigals. 

63 


The  Dioersions  of  a  Book-looer 

There  is  also  the  first  folio  of  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher  (1647),  with  the  Marshall  portrait  of 
Fletcher,  none  the  less  precious  because  of 
Charles  Lamb's  dehght  over  "that  folio  Beau- 
mont and  Fletcher  which  he  dragged  home  late 
at  night  from  Barker's  in  Co  vent  Garden."  I 
wish  that  I  could  persuade  myself  that  my  copy 
was  the  veritable  one  which  was  thus  dragged 
home. 

Even  if  we  are  compelled  to  stand  afar  off, 
gazing  reverently  upon  the  four  hundred  of  the 
collectors,  the  aristocracy  of  book-gatherers,  we 
may  nevertheless  cherish  devotedly  the  books 
which  line  the  walls  of  our  modest  library ;  poor 
things  they  may  be,  but  our  own. 

Somewhere  in  the  miscellany  scattered  on  the 
upper  shelves  of  the  cases  in  my  bedroom  (I 
have  not  yet  reached  the  bathroom  stage  re- 
ferred to  by  Seneca)  we  may  find  a  small  book 
entitled  The  Right  Way  to  Heaven,  and  a  Good 
Precedent  for  Lawyers  and  All  Other  Good  Chris- 
tians, compiled  by  "Richard  Vennard  of  Lin- 
colne's  Inn,  Gent,"  and  when  we  have  recovered 
from  the  shock  at  finding  lawyers  classified  with 
Christians,  a  most  unpopular  performance,  we 
may  observe  that  it  is  really  quite  an  interesting 
work,  printed  "at  London,"  in  1602.  It  con- 
tains a  fearful  and  wonderful  representation  of 
"Saint  George  for  England,"  trampling  upon  a 

64 


The   Diocrsions  of  a  Book-looer 

dragon  as  ineffective  as  the  "Wurmb"  in  the 
Metropolitan  Opera-House  on  Siegfried  nights, 
and  leading  as  to  disparage  the  prowess  of 
England's  far-famed  champion.  McKee  had  it 
bound  sweetly  in  blue  levant,  and  his  book- 
plate reminds  me  of  a  very  kind,  amiable,  and 
lovable  lawyer  who  will  be  remembered  fondly 
by  all  New  York  book-fanciers. 

Now  and  then  one  hears  of  a  true  first  edition 
of  that  early  poem.  The  Embargo,  which  William 
Cullen  Bryant  presented  to  the  world  at  the 
tender  age  of  thirteen,  but  most  of  us  have  to 
be  content  with  the  second  edition,  "printed  for 
the  author,  by  E.  G.  House,  1809."  The  title  is 
"The  Embargo;  or.  Sketches  of  the  Times,  a 
Satire:  the  second  edition,  corrected  and  en- 
larged; together  with  the  Spanish  Revolution 
and  other  poems;  by  William  Cullen  Bryant." 
In  the  "advertisement"  prefixed  to  the  poems 
some  one  seems  interested  in  convincing  readers 
that  the  author  was  really  as  young  as  he  was 
represented.  "A  doubt  having  been  intimat- 
ed," says  the  prefatory  person,  "in  the  Monthly 
Anthology  of  June  last,  whether  a  youth  of 
thirteen  years  could  have  been  the  author  of 
this  poem,  in  justice  to  his  merits  the  friends 
of  the  writer  feel  obliged  to  certify  the  fact  from 
their  personal  knowledge  of  himself  and  his 
family,  as  well  as  his  literary  improvement  and 
s  65 


The  Dioersions   of  a   Book-looer 

extraordinary  talents.  .  .  .  Mr.  Bryant,  the  au- 
thor, is  a  native  of  Cummington,  in  the  county 
of  Hampshire,  and  in  the  month  of  November 
last  anived  at  the  age  of  fourteen  years."  It  is 
amusing  to  read  in  the  preface  of  the  poem, 
prepared  by  the  precocious  lad,  the  charac- 
terization of  the  "  teraptn  policy  "  of  the  ad- 
ministration in  imposing  the  embargo.  Cer- 
tainly the  poem  is  surprisingly  good,  considering 
the  youth  of  its  author,  and  this  second  edition 
is  well  worth  the  neat  binding  which  it  has 
received  from  Bradstreet's.  One  may  have  a 
slight  shock  of  astonishment  at  reading  this  lad's 
remarks  on  Jefferson,  which,  however,  are  quite 
familiar  to  students  of  American  political  history  : 

Go,  wretch,  resign  the  Presidential  chair. 
Disclose  thy  secret  measures,  foul  or  fair; 
Go,  search  with  curious   eye  for  homed  frogs, 
Mid  the  wild  wastes  of  Louisianian  bogs; 
Or,  where  Ohio  rolls  his  turbid  stream. 
Dig  for  huge  bones,  thy  glory  and  thy  theme. 
Go,  scan,  Philosophist,  thy  ******  charms 
And  sink  supinely  in  her  sable  arms. 

The  "stars"  are  replaced  in  a  later  version 
by  "  Sally's."*  Mr.  Parke  Godwin,  in  his  Life  of 
Bryant,  asserts  that  the  only  copy  of  the  second 
edition  of  The  Embargo  which  he  was  able  to 

*  Godwin's  Bryant,  71. 
66 


The  Dioersions  of   a  Book-looer 

find  was  in  the  New  York  Historical  Library. 
Mr.  Godwin  once  asked  Bryant  if  he  had  a  copy 
of  The  Embargo.  "No,"  he  answered,  testily; 
"why  should  I  keep  such  stuff  as  that?"  Later 
on,  Godwin  told  him  that  he  had  succeeded  in 
borrowing  a  copy  from  a  friend;  his  reply  was: 
"Well,  you  have  taken  a  great  deal  of  trouble 
for  a  very  foolish  thing."  It  adds  to  my  sense 
of  advancing  years  to  recall  my  single  meeting 
with  the  venerable  editor  of  the  Evening  Post, 
and  it  is  difficult  for  me  to  imagine  the  person- 
age I  then  beheld,  as  a  boy  of  thirteen,  thunder- 
ing in  stately  verse  against  the  unconscious 
Jefferson,  who  may  have  gone  to  his  grave 
wholly  imaware  of  the  existence  of  the  Massa- 
chusetts poet. 

People  who  have  only  a  second-hand  knowl- 
edge of  books  are  apt  to  talk,  with  an  air  of 
conscious  wisdom,  about  Elzevirs,  but  they 
seldom  know  much  about  the  merits  of  the 
famous  duodecimos,  which  Burton  speaks  of  as 
"a  sort  of  literary  bantams."^  In  or  about 
the  year  1583  the  Elzevirs  began  to  produce 
their  pretty  little  volumes,  and  from  time  to 
time  their  editions   have  been   eagerly  sought 

*"  Dapper  Elzevirs,  like  fairy  elves,  show  their  light 
forms  amidst  the  well-gilt  Twelves,"  sings  John  Ferriar,  in 
his  poem  on  "  Bibliomania." 

67 


The   Diversions  of  a   Book-looer 

for  and  then  suffered  to  lapse  into  neglect. 
In  1880  M.  Willems  published  Les  Elzevier, 
which  is  the  definite  authority  on  Elzevirs. 
There  is  much  to  be  learned  about  them,  and 
we  may  not  rest  tranquilly  merely  because  we 
possess  a  book  which  is  an  Elzevir  on  its  face. 
"In  Elzevirs,"  says  Mr.  Lang,  "a  line's  breadth 
of  margin  is  often  worth  a  hundred  pounds,  and 
a  misprint  is  quoted  at  no  less  a  sum,"  and  he 
adds  that  no  Elzevir  is  valuable  unless  it  is 
clean  and  large  in  the  margins.  My  favorite 
Elzevir  is  the  ten  -  volume  edition  of  Cicero  — 
M.  Tullii  Ciceronis  Opera  cum  optimis  exem- 
plarihus  accurate  collata,  Lugduni,  Batavorum, 
ex  officina  Elzeviriana,  1642.  It  is  a  fairly 
clean  copy,  including  the  genuine  ninth  volume, 
bound  in  old  polished  calf,  with  gilt  borders  and 
back;  and  I  am  told  that  copies  of  the  Elzevir 
Cicero  in  fine  condition  are  rare;  but  the  type 
is  too  small  for  my  eyes,  and  I  have  reason  to 
believe  that  the  text  is  not  remarkable  for 
accuracy.  Mr.  William  Loring  Andrews  is  an 
authority  on  Elzevirs,  and  he  says  "  there  are 
Aldines,  Elzevirs,  and  Plantins  of  great  price, 
and  others  that  are  valueless."  The  dainty 
volumes  are  not  as  popular  as  they  used  to  be, 
but  the  name  is  always  deeply  impressive  in 
the  imagination  of  the  commencing  collector. 
Richard  Grant  White  says,  in  a  note  on  page  57 

68 


The   Diocrsions  of  a   Book-looer 

of  his  edition  of  The  Book-Hunter:  "The  inex- 
perienced collector  of  books,  and  especially  of 
the  ancient  classics,  should  not  be  tempted  into 
paying  high  prices  for  Elzevir  editions,  unless 
in  a  case  where  there  is  something  particularly 
attractive  to  his  taste  in  the  individual  copy, 
and  he  pays  for  his  whim — for  which,  alas!  we 
are  all  too  ready.  The  Elzevirs  have  fallen  much 
in  estimation  and  value  of  late  years.  Their 
accuracy  has  been  found  to  have  been  too  much 
vaunted ;  and  the  page  is  a  bad  one  for  the  eye 
— not  on  account  of  its  smallness,  or  poor  press- 
work,  but  because  of  the  shape  of  the  letter."  I 
do  not  agree  entirely  with  this  sweeping  con- 
demnation. My  copy  of  this  edition  of  The 
Book-Hunter  (New  York,  1863)  has  a  manu- 
script note  made  by  a  former  owner:  "See  a 
review  of  this  book  and  the  editor  in  The  Phi- 
lohiblon,  vol.  2,  p.  60.  It  can't  be  said  the  re- 
viewer spared  the  editor,  but  it  can  be  said 
that  the  editor  gets  what  he  deserves." 

All  Americans  must  feel  an  interest  in  what- 
ever relates  to  the  tragic  story  of  John  Andre. 
The  literature  of  that  episode  in  our  history  is 
increasing  in  volume  with  every  year.  I  am 
happy  in  owning  a  small  i6mo  book  entitled 
An  Authentic  Narrative  of  the  Causes  which  led 
to  the  death  of  Major  Andre,  Adjutant  General 

69 


The  Dioersions   of  a  Book-looer 

of  his  Majesty's  Forces  in  Xcrth  America,  by 
Joshua  Hett  Smith,  Esq.,  printed  ia  New  York 
for  Evert  Ehiyckinck  in  1809.  There  are  two 
leaves  missing,  which  makes  the  little  voliune 
less  valuable  than  a  complete  copy,  but  it  has  an 
intrinsic  interest  as  well  as  a  bibliographical  one. 
There  are  few  incidents  in  our  history-  more 
fascinating  than  the  Andre  incident,  and  the 
student  may  well  devote  a  portion  of  his  time 
to  the  perusal  of  Mr.  William  Abbatt's  Crisis  of 
tiie  Revolution,  which  is,  or  ought  to  be  a  deHght 
to  any  reader. 

I  am  rather  fond  of  an  extra-illustrated  copy 
of  TJie  Poetical  Register;  or,  tJie  Lives  atid  Charac- 
ters of  Hie  English  Dramatic  Poets,  with  an  Ac- 
ccrnnt  of  TJieir  Writings,  published  m  London 
(printed  for  E.  Carll),  in  Fleet  Street,  1719.  It 
bears  the  autograph  of  its  former  owner,  J.  Le- 
f  anu,  and  the  charming  book-plate  of  that  weU- 
known  member  of  the  GroHer  Club,  Edward  Hale 
Bierstadt.  The  two  volumes  have  a  dignified, 
old-fashioned,  caH  binding,  with  a  painfully 
modem  gilt  back,  and  with  that  back  I  would 
gladly  dispense.  I  have  an  added  affection  for 
the  book  because  of  Bierstadt's  pencilled  colla- 
tion: 

A  8  leaves 

A  4  leaves 

B   24  in  eights 

Aa  6  leaves 


The   Dioersions  of  a  Book-looer 

Many  friends  of  mine  who  Hke  books  and  are 
actually  given  to  reading  them  have  owned  to 
me  that  they  do  not  know  exactly  what  is  meant 
by  "  collating."  Without  affecting  imdue  learn- 
ing on  the  subject — I  am  not  now  attempting 
the  useless  task  of  imparting  information  to  the 
youth  who  does  the  newspaper  criticisms — I  may 
for  the  benefit  of  these  good  friends  be  allowed 
to  sa}?-  that  its  technical  sense  is  the  verification 
of  the  arrangement  of  the  sheets  of  a  book, 
which  is  usually  done  by  counting  and  inspecting 
the  signatures  at  the  foot  of  the  first  page  of  each 
sheet.  It  is  only  an  expert  "  collationer  "  who  is 
capable  of  judging  wisely  about  the  value  of  any 
ancient  book,  because  the  old  binders  seem  to 
have  been  careless  and  to  have  been  sadly  in- 
different about  getting  together  all  the  sheets  of 
a  book.  Even  the  modem  binders  will  bear 
watching.  Skill  in  collating  is  rare,  and  yet  no 
one  may  presume  to  consider  himself  to  be  an 
authority  on  books  if  he  is  not  well  trained  in  the 
art.  It  cannot  be  acquired  except  by  study, 
and  I  en\y  those  who  understand  it,  for  I  can 
never  hope  to  arraj'"  myself  in  their  ranks. 

This  Httle  volume,  called  Poems  hy  S.  T. 
Coleridge,  secofid  edition,  to  which  are  added 
Poems  by  CJiarles  La>Jib  atid  Charles  Lloyd,  was 
published  by  Joseph  Cottle,  at  Bristol,  in  1797. 
Its  old-fashioned  duodecimo  sheets  nestle  snuglv 

71 


The   DiDcrsions  of  a  Book-louer 

in  the  binding  of  smooth,  old  calf,  and,  while  it 
is  not  phenomenally  rare,  it  is  scarce  according 
to  Talfourd.  It  is  valuable  chiefly  because  the 
twenty-eight  pages  devoted  to  Lamb  contain 
all  of  his  writings  up  to  that  time  which  he 
considered  worth  preserving.  Had  he  written 
nothing  else,  he  would  now  be  the  most  obscure 
of  the  multitude  of  minor  poets  scattered  along 
the  path  of  English  literature,  specimens  whereof 
we  discover  in  the  many  anthologies  and  col- 
lections which  overcrowd  our  libraries.  The  lov- 
er of  Lamb  must  be  proud  of  this  book  when 
he  thinks  of  the  author's  happiness  in  beholding 
the  dedication  prepared  so  affectionately  "with 
all  a  brother's  fondness,  to  Mary  Ann  Lamb, 
the  author's  best  friend  and  sister,"  and  of  the 
pride  and  delight,  commemorated  by  Talfourd, 
with  which  she  received  this  fraternal  expression 
of  affection.  The  motto  prefixed  to  the  book 
was  a  mystery  to  classical  experts.  "Duplex 
nobis  vinculum,  et  amicitiae  et  similium  juncta- 
rumque  Camoenarum ;  quod  utinam  neque  mors 
sol  vat,  neque  temporis  longinquitas."  It  was 
ascribed  to  "  Groscoll.  Epist.  ad  Car.  Utenhov. 
et  Ptol.  Lux.  Tast.,"  but  Coleridge  laughingly  ad- 
mitted to  Cottle  that  "  it  was  all  a  hoax."  They 
were  given  to  that  sort  of  fooling  in  those  days. 
It  is  a  pleasant  thing  to  remember  that  Cole- 
ridge  wished   to   place    Lamb's   poems  before 

72 


The  DiDersions   of  a  Boob-looer 

Lloyd's,  but  Lamb  requested  that  Lloyd's  should 
be  placed  first.  In  Coleridge's  first  edition  he 
had  included  some  of  Lamb's  sonnets,  so  that, 
after  all,  my  volume  is  not  quite  a  first  edition 
of  Lamb. 

To  me,  the  books  which  were  produced  in  the 
early  part  of  the  seventeenth  century  are  passing 
dull,  although  they  may  mean  very  much  to 
the  serious  collector.  I  am  looking  at  what  is 
styled  a  "very  fine,  tall  copy"  of  a  book  enti- 
tled The  True  and  Royall  Historie  of  the  famous 
Empresse  Elizabeth,  Queene  of  England,  France 
and  Ireland  &c,  true  faith's  defendresse  of  divine 
renoune  and  happy  memory,  translated  from  the 
French  by  one  Abraham  Darcie,  containing  a 
portrait  of  the  Virgin  Queen,  "with  Fan  of 
ostrich  plumes,"  printed  in  1625.  My  record 
tells  me  that  it  has  an  added  value  because  there 
is  in  it  a  cheerless  sort  of  portrait  of  Darcie,  or 
Darssie,  as  his  name  is  sometimes  given,  which 
does  not  belong  to  the  book,  but  is  sometimes 
inserted  in  it.  It  is  dedicated  "To  the  Most 
august,  most  sacred  and  most  excellent  Majesty 
of  James  the  First,  Emperour  of  Great  Britanne, 
King  of  France,  Ireland  and  Virginia,  defender 
of  the  Faith.  The  Translator  of  these  Annalls 
wisheth  to  His  Imperiall  Majestic  blessednesse, 
perpetuall  health,  with  all  happinesse,  pros- 
peritie,   and  felicitie,  in  both  worlds."     These 

73 


The  Diversions   of  a  Book-looer 

men  were  redundant  in  spelling  as  well  as  in  style, 
and  their  productions  are  characterized  by  a 
solemn  and  portentous  tediousness  which  may 
be  rivalled  only  by  a  Patent  Office  report  or  by 
a  chapter  of  Alison's  History.  The  solicitude 
of  the  author  about  the  King's  health  in  "both 
worlds"  recalls  the  toast-master  who,  at  a  din- 
ner in  New  York,  proposed  "the  health  of  our 
old  friend,  Governor  Flower,"  that  sturdy  per- 
sonage having  departed  this  life  a  short  time  be- 
fore. The  only  charm  about  these  "Annalls" 
of  all  the  most  remarkable  things  that  hap- 
pened "during  EKzabeth's  blessed  Raigne"  is 
that  the  book  came  from  the  collection  of  that 
kindly  and  enthusiastic  collector,  the  late  Henry 
Sewall. 

Much  more  to  my  liking  is  a  stately  quarto, 
the  first  edition  of  The  Works  of  Mr.  Alexander 
Pope,  printed  by  W.  Bowyer  for  Bernard  Lintot, 
between  the  Temple  Gates,  1 7 1 7 ;  bound  by 
Blackwell  decently  enough,  if  it  were  not  for  the 
hideous  paper  of  the  sides,  of  which  even  the 
best  binders  are  so  unaccountably  fond.  Of 
course,  it  is  not  the  true  first  edition  of  many 
of  the  poems  which  are  included  in  it,  but  only 
the  first  edition  of  that  collection  of  poems. 
Pope  was  twenty-nine  when  it  appeared.  There 
is  a  gravity  and  a  dignity  about  the  type  which 
is  not  to  be  met  with  in  the  books  of  our  day. 

74 


The   DiDcrsions   of   a  Book-looer 

It  might  easily  be  read  even  by  my  friend  who 
told  me  that  there  was  nothing  wrong  about  his 
eyes,  but  that  his  arms  were  not  long  enough. 
We  can  all  acquiesce  in  the  solemn  sentence 
with  which  the  preface  begins:  "I  am  inclined 
to  think  that  both  the  writers  of  books,  and  the 
readers  of  them,  are  generally  not  a  little  un- 
reasonable in  their  expectations."  It  was  just 
before  the  publishing  of  this  edition  that  Pope 
left  the  old  house  at  No.  9  Berkeley  vStreet, 
Piccadilly,  opposite  Devonshire  House,  and  now 
probably  absorbed  in  the  enlarged  hotel  which 
Americans  know  so  pleasantly  as  "The  Berke- 
ley." About  that  time  Pope  removed  to  Twick- 
enham, to  dwell  in  his  famous  villa — or  villakin, 
as  Swift  called  it. 

We  had  but  few  poets  in  America  in  the 
eighteenth  century,  and  when  I  read  their 
writings  I  am  disposed  to  wonder  that  they 
were  allowed  to  live.  One  of  the  best  of  them 
was  the  belligerent  Democrat,  Philip  Freneau, 
almost  forgotten  to-day,  but  in  his  time  greatly 
esteemed  by  his  countrymen,  particularly  by 
the  disciples  of  Thomas  Jefferson.  He'  was  an 
editor,  a  literary  man,  when  literary  men  and 
editors  were  rare  birds.  He  was  a  Prince- 
ton graduate,  of  the  class  of  1771,  and  James 
Madison  was  his  room-mate.     I  enjoy  some  of 

75 


The   Dioersions  of  a  Book-locer 

his  "  Poems  written  between  the  years  1768  and 
1794,  printed  at  the  press  of  the  author,  at 
Mount  Pleasant  near  Middletown  Point,"  which 
is  in  New  Jersey,  in  1795.  The  poems  are  of 
unequal  merit,  but  as  the  writer  was  only  six- 
teen when  the  first  one,  "  The  Political  History 
of  the  Prophet  Jonah,"  was  written,  he  may  be 
pardoned  for  everything  except  the  printing  of 
such  absurd  balderdash.  Later  on  he  did  far 
better  work.  The  mechanical  execution  of  the 
book  is  sadly  crude  and  imperfect,  but  it  is  a 
specimen  of  the  work  of  that  early  period  of  our 
history  as  an  independent  community.^ 

Down  in  the  quiet  neighborhood  of  West 
Twenty  -  first  Street  and  Ninth  Avenue  the 
casual  passenger  on  the  elevated  railway  may, 
if  he  can  withdraw  his  attention  long  enough 
from  the  delectable  pages  of  the  World  and  the 
Journal,  gaze  upon  a  pleasant  array  of  collegiate 
buildings,  a  reHef  to  the  eye,  bringing  into  the 
busy  metropolis  a  gentle  atmosphere  of  scholastic 
repose.  This  charming  oasis  in  the  desert  of 
business  and  tall,  desolate  -  looking  apartment 
houses,  was  created  by  the  benefactions  of 
Charles  Clement  Moore,  supplemented  generous- 
ly in  later  years  by  the  munificence  of  Dean 
Eugene  Augustus  Hoffman.    Moore,  son  of  Bish- 

*  A  bibliography  of  his  works,  by  Victor  Hugo  Paltsits, 
has  recently  been  printed  by  Dodd,  Mead  &  Company. 

76 


The  Dioersions  of  a  Book-looer 

op  Benjamin  Moore,  lived  from  the  days  of  the 
Revolution  to  the  days  of  the  Rebellion,  for 
he  was  bom  two  years  before  Yorktown  and 
died  six  days  after  Gettysburg,  at  the  ripe 
age  of  eighty  -  four.  He  was  the  pioneer  of 
Hebrew  lexicography  in  this  country,  and  was 
for  many  years  a  professor  in  Columbia  in  the 
department  of  Biblical  Learning  and  of  Oriental 
and  Greek  Literature.  I  well  remember  his 
slight  and  venerable  figure  as  he  strolled  about 
the  grounds  which  surrounded  his  son's  pretty 
country  home  on  the  banks  of  the  Hudson. 
What  he  will  always  be  known  for,  sad  as  it 
may  seem,  is  not  his  erudition  in  Greek  and  in 
Hebrew,  but  that  much-loved  set  of  verses  called 
"  The  Night  Before  Christmas,"  which  struck  the 
chord  of  popular  affection.  The  volume  which 
I  prize,  called  Poems  by  Clement  C.  Moore,  LL.D. 
— the  honorary  degree  might  have  been  omitted 
— was  printed  by  Bartlett  &  Welford,  New  York, 
1844.  Characteristically  it  bears  a  Latin  motto, 
"  Et  sermone  opus  est  modo  tristi,  saepe  jocoso  " 
— and  it  is  offered  in  a  pleasant  preface  ad- 
dressed to  the  author's  children.  I  like  one 
sentence  of  this  preface,  because  it  is  candid 
and  free  from  the  usual  mock-modesty.  "  I  do 
not  pay  my  readers  so  ill  a  compliment  as  to 
offer  the  contents  of  this  volume  to  their  view 
as   the   mere   amusements   of   my   idle    hours, 

77 


The  Diversions  of  a   Book-looer 

effusions  thrown  ofif  without  care  or  meditation, 
as  though  the  refuse  of  my  thoughts  were  good 
enough  for  them.  On  the  contrary,  some  of  the 
pieces  have  cost  me  much  time  and  thought; 
and  I  have  composed  them  all  as  carefully  and 
correctly  as  I  could."  The  fifty-six  lines  which 
make  up  "A  Visit  from  St.  Nicholas"  have 
stirred  men's  hearts  for  over  sixty  years,  and  they 
deserve  to  rank  with  the  Christmas  stories  of 
Charles  Dickens,  making  the  holiday  season  de- 
lightful to  every  one  who  has  in  him  a  spark 
of  imagination  or  a  gleam  of  love  for  his  fellow- 
men. 

It  may  be  questioned  whether  a  law-book  is 
a  book  at  all ;  but  it  has  some  of  the  features  of  a 
book,  in  that  it  is  printed  and  it  is  bound.  I 
exclude  works  on  medicine  and  theology  from 
my  own  shelves,  but  I  may  "own  up"  to  the 
possession  of  two  legal  dissertations,  one  of  them 
by  a  lawyer  whose  friendship  I  value  and  of 
whom  I  may  say  that  his  treatise  has  been  a 
feature  of  our  "mutual  life."  The  other  is 
called  An  Essay  on  the  Learning  of  Contingent 
Remainders  and  Executory  Devises:  by  Charles 
Fearne,  Esq.,  Barrister  at  Law,  of  the  Inner 
Temple.  It  is  the  fifth  edition,  "revised,  cor- 
rected and  greatly  enlarged  by  the  author,"  and 
it  was  published  in  Dublin  in  the  year  1794. 
I  preserve  it  not  only  for  its  fame,  but  because 
'   78 


The   Dioersions  of  a  Book-loocr 

it  was  the  gift  of  a  venerable  lawyer  who  led 
the  bar  of  his  county  until  at  eighty-two  the 
inexorable  decree  was  entered  which  closed  the 
record  of  his  honorable  life. 

It  is  within  the  bounds  of  possibility  that  a 
more  deadly  and  sodden  specimen  of  abstruse 
and  incomprehensible  reasoning  may  have  been 
inflicted  upon  mankind,  but  I  am  doubtful. 
Compared  with  Fearne's  essay,  a  treatise  on  the 
differential  calculus  and  a  study  of  the  evi- 
dences of  a  rudimentary  tail  in  trilobites  would 
be  insanely  hilarious.  Fearne  was  at  one  time 
"an  obscure  law-man,  in  Breame's  Buildings, 
Chancery  Lane,"  and  he  had  "invented  a 
musket" — a  smooth-bore,  of  course — which  his 
editor,  Butler,  regarded  as  "  defective."  Fearne's 
dissipations  were  the  writing  of  a  treatise  on  the 
Greek  accent  and  another  on  the  "  Retreat  of  the 
Ten  Thousand."  It  has  been  said  of  "Contin- 
gent Remainders"  that  "no  work,  perhaps,  on 
any  branch  of  science  affords  a  more  beautiful 
instance  of  analysis."  Few  lawyers  to-day  are 
acquainted  with  anything  beyond  the  title. 

Specimens  of  the  style  of  this  airy  trifle  might 
be  multiplied,  but  one  may  sufflce.  "If  we  are 
to  infer  (as  is  said  in  the  arguments  in  Chud- 
leigh's  case)  a  scintilla  juris  in  the  feoffers,  that 
may  enable  them  to  enter  and  restore  their 
possibility  of  a  seisin  (or  if  the  contingency  has 

79 


The  Diversions  of  a  Book-locer 

happened,  their  actual  seisin)  to  serve  the  con- 
tingent uses ;  what  is  it  that  confines  us  to  such 
narrow  and  insufficient  limits  in  regard  to  the 
measure  of  this  scintilla  juris?  Why  not  ex- 
tend the  influence  one  degree  further,  and 
suppose  such  a  scintilla  juris  as  may  be  com- 
petent to  serve  the  contingent  uses,  without  the 
necessary  circuity  of  an  actual  entry?"  Why 
not,  indeed?  Let  the  modern  attorney,  with 
his  Code  in  one  hand  and  Abbott's  Forms  in  the 
other,  answer  if  he  can.  This  little  gem  of 
Fearne's  might  be  used  as  an  after-dinner  story 
if  it  were  not  for  the  parentheses;  too  many 
of  them  really  spoil  an  after-dinner  story.  I 
have  seldom  encountered  anything  more  enter- 
taining, unless  it  be  Judge  Keener' s  work  on 
Quasi-Contracts.  A  great  English  advocate  once 
said  that  whenever  he  heard  a  man  say  "  Quasi" 
he  always  buttoned  up  his  pockets.  But  no- 
body will  appreciate  that  quip  except  a  jurist, 
and  we  have  no  jurists  in  this  country  except 
the  pupils  in  the  Harvard  and  Columbia  law- 
schools.  The  "remainder"  of  us,  who  merely 
practise  law,  admit  our  helpless  inferiority. 


V 


Of  the  buying  of  books;  with  remarks  about  novels 
and  about  literary  association. 

IF  there  is  anything  more  deceptive  than  the 
catalogue,  it  is  the  auction  and  its  record  of 
prices.  These  prices  are  always  absurdly  low 
when  we  are  not  bidders,  and  unspeakably  high 
whenever  we  venture  to  compete,  for  reasons 
which  the  professionals  might  explain  if  they 
wished  to  take  the  world  into  their  confidence. 
I  have  my  opinion  of  the  man  who  depends 
upon  the  volumes  of  Book  Prices  Current,  but  1 
will  not  express  it;  it  might  be  misinterpreted. 
I  would  not  disparage  the  value  of  the  com- 
pilation, for  the  history  of  the  book-market  is 
of  interest  and  the  work  is  done  with  admirable 
accuracy.  I  am  referring  only  to  the  deductions 
which  the  unwary  may  easily  draw  therefrom, 
and  most  of  us  are  often  misled  because  we  are 
careless.  The  man  who  relies  upon  these  re- 
ports in  the  regulation  of  his  investments,  and 
who  gives  his  simple  faith  to  any  literature  of 
that  sort,  is  sailing  upon  an  uncharted  sea. 
6  8i 


The  Diversions  of  a  Book-locer 

The  market  value  of  stocks  in  Wall  Street  seldom 
has  any  correct  relation  to  the  intrinsic  worth, 
and  in  the  book-exchange  one  may  never  judge 
accurately  about  the  pecuniary  value  of  a  book 
by  the  sum  which  the  professionals  made  an 
enthusiast  pay  for  it  at  an  auction  sale.  So 
much  depends  upon  circumstances,  to  use  a 
trite  and  banal  phrase,  that  the  auctioneer's 
price  is  very  far  from  being  conclusive  evidence. 

When  a  great  library  comes  under  the  hammer 
and  the  sale  is  well  "advertised,"  as  the  news- 
papers say,  the  buyers  flock  in  numbers  and  the 
orders  are  generous.  Then  it  is  that  the  record 
teems  with  "big  prices,"  and  the  soul  of  the 
dealer  expands  with  joy  as  he  contemplates  his 
list  of  unlimited  orders.  I  have  always  thought 
that  it  was  an  odd  arrangement  by  which  the 
purchaser  pays  to  his  agent  a  fixed  percentage 
on  the  price  paid,  so  that  the  man  whose  duty 
it  is  to  buy  for  you  as  cheaply  as  he  can  receives 
more  remuneration  the  more  he  pays  for  the 
property!  I  should  amend  by  having  the  com- 
mission scaled  down  if  the  price  ran  above  a 
fixed  amount.  But  perhaps  the  commissions 
are  really  not  considerable  enough  to  influence 
any  one. 

An  element  of  attraction  about  the  large  sales 
is  the  advantage  of  possessing  a  book  which 
comes  from  the  library  of  a  well-known  coUec- 

82 


The    Diversions  of  a  Book-looer 

tor,  because  it  bears  the  hall-mark  of  distinc- 
tion. The  book  has  a  borrowed  fame,  a  sort 
of  guarantee  of  authenticity  and  rarity.  The 
ordinary  buyer  loves  to  think  that  what  he  has 
bought  had  an  interest  for  one  whom  he  has 
revered  and  admired  afar  off.  McKee  I  knew 
as  a  careful,  well-equipped  lawyer,  but  to  the 
world  he  was  better  known  as  an  ardent  col- 
lector, and  I  cherish  a  McKee  book  more  than 
one  picked  up  at  a  Nassau  Street  book-counter. 
Let  no  one  remind  me  that  there  are  practically 
no  Nassau  Street  book-counters  in  these  times; 
once  on  a  time  there  were  many.  They  were 
the  nearest  approaches  we  ever  had  to  the 
book-stalls  celebrated  by  the  poet : 

The  book-stall  old  and  gray, 
There  are  precious  gems  of  thought 
That  were  quarried  long  ago, 
Some  in  vellum  bound,  and  wrought 
With  letters  and  lines  of  gold. 
There  are  curious  rows  of  'calf,' 
And  perchance  an  Elzevir; 
There  are  countless  '  mos '  of  chaff 
And  a  pleasant  folio, 
Like  leaves  that  are  cracked  with  cold, 
All  puckered  and  brown  and  sear. 

Somehow,  while  Clinton  Scollard  meant  well, 
these  lines  indicate  that  his  acquaintance  with 
the  mysteries  of  book-lore  is  rather  limited. 

The  records  .of  the  sales,  compiled  by  that 
83 


The   Diversions  of  a  Book-looer 

competent  expert,  Mr,  Livingston,  show  the 
marvellous  uncertainties  of  the  market.  The 
catalogues  of  the  library  of  Frederick  W. 
French,  sold  in  Boston  in  April,  1901,  were  well 
made  and  wisely  distributed,  falling  into  the 
possession  of  the  ambitious  and  attracting  the 
plutocrat  eager  to  own  a  notable  library.  Hence 
the  Caxton  Club  books,  then  exposed  for  com- 
petition, brought,  in  many  instances,  more  than 
double  the  amount  paid  for  them  in  the  pre- 
ceding November.  They  had  not  really  in- 
creased in  value  to  that  extent,  but  there  was 
a  gathering  of  the  clans  in  Boston,  and  the 
lambs  tumbled  over  one  another  in  their  wild 
struggle.  With  regard  to  old  and  famous  books, 
we  must,  of  course,  bear  in  mind  that  condition 
counts  greatly  in  the  matter  of  the  price.  The 
amateur  is  apt  to  lose  sight  of  the  fact  that 
wide  margins  and  unstained  pages  command  a 
premium.  The  catalogue  is  not  always  clear  or 
adequate  on  these  points. 

Thinking  of  prices,  we  may  recall  the  fact 
that  John  Eliot's  Indian  Bible  (New  Testament, 
1661;  Old  Testament,  1663)  sold  in  1882  for 
$2900.  It  contained  some  Indian  words  which 
were  so  long  that  Cotton  Mather  thought  they 
must  have  been  stretching  themselves  ever  since 
the  confusion  of  tongues  at  Babel.  Many  years 
ago  (perhaps  not  many,  but  a  good  many)  that 

84 


The  Dioersions   of  a  Book-loDcr 

well-beloved  lawyer,  Hamilton  Cole,  dear  to  all 
University  Club  men,  paid  something  like  $10,000 
for  a  certain  famous  Bible.  The  purchase  was 
heralded  all  over  the  land,  and  Cole's  name  was 
emblazoned  in  the  roll  of  valiant  and  ambitious 
book-buyers.  Soon  afterwards  there  appeared 
the  revision  of  the  Bible,  which  promised  so 
much  and  had  so  little  true  success,  in  which 
the  word  commonly  used  to  designate  the 
future  abode  of  the  wicked  was  softened  to  the 
rather  ineffective  expression,  "sheol."  Judge 
John  R.  Brady,  whose  genial  memory  still 
lives  in  the  minds  of  lawyers  of  the  latter  half 
of  the  last  century,  was  moved  to  say  of  this 
phenomenal  purchase:  "Poor  Cole;  he  bought 
a  Bible  for  ten  thousand  dollars  and  then  the 
revisers  came  along  and  knocked  hell  out  of  it." 

Having  been  accustomed,  during  these  many 
years,  to  reverence  the  utterances  of  that  dis- 
tinguished journal  sacred  to  the  memory  of 
William  Coleman,  William  CuUen  Bryant,  and 
Edwin  Lawrence  Godkin,  I  was  shocked  a  few 
months  ago  at  an  extraordinary  editorial  on 
"Book  Collectors  and  Others,"  for  I  have  been 
in  the  habit  of  translating  Post  hoc  ergo  propter 
hoc  as  "whatever  the  Post  says,  goes."  No 
doubt  there  is  a  fallacy  lurking  somewhere,  but 
when  the   Post   fails  me,  I  am  indeed  a  hap- 

85 


The  Diocrsions  of  a  Book-louer 

less  wanderer  without  the  aid  of  a  discriminat- 
ing lantern.  The  sentiments  expressed  in  this 
editorial  effusion  are  in  many  respects  abhor- 
rent and  repulsive,  but  they  are  those  of  the 
Philistine.  Referring  to  prices,  it  says:  "What 
is  really  paid  for  in  every  instance  is  simple 
rarity."  This  is  sadly  untrue,  as  every  intel- 
ligent book -buyer  knows.  Rarity  is  only  one 
element,  and  many  rare  books  are  compara- 
tively cheap.  I  object,  also,  to  the  assertion 
that  "it  must  be  said  that  very  httle  collect- 
ing is  free  from  the  taint  of  commercialism. 
The  books  in  a  private  library  are  usually  too 
valuable  to  be  used,  even  if  the  collector,  which 
rarely  happens,  is  a  reader  also.  His  prints  are 
of  a  kind  too  precious  to  be  framed,  his  china 
too  good  for  household  use."*  The  man  who 
could  pen  such  unjustifiable  thoughts  is  hope- 
less; he  has  not  learned  the  alphabet  of  collect- 
ing; he  appreciates  the  truth  about  as  much  as 
did  the  person  who  said  in  my  hearing,  at  the 
Philadelphia  Centennial  Exposition  of  1876,  re- 
gaining a  picture  of  Perseus  and  Andromeda: 
"  That,  my  son,  is  the  devil  chained  to  a  rock."  ^ 

'  An  old  calumny.  "He  (Mermet)  would  no  more  think 
of  taking  his  Aldine  Virgil,  bound  for  Grolier,  to  the  country 
for  summer  reading,  than  the  collector  of  Palissy  would 
think  of  using  his  precious  dishes  on  the  daily  breakfast- 
table."      Duprat,  preface  to  Mermet' s  Essay. 

-It  may  seem  that  my  intimation  that  a  collector  may 

86 


The   Dioersions   of  a   Book-loDer 

The  learned  editor  remarks  further  upon  the 
"  fact  that  Thackeray's  first  editions,  neatly 
bound,  may  be  had  for  a  song,  while  the  same 
volume  in  its  original  serial  parts,  with  the 
advertising  pages  and  the  ugly  newspaper 
covers,  may  be  worth  a  missionary's  ransom." 
Let  us  see.  In  the  year  1900  the  first  edition 
of  the  Newcomes,  original  paper  covers,  and  with 
all  the  "ads,"  sold  at  auction  for  sixteen  dollars. 
In  April,  1901,  it  sold  for  thirteen  dollars,  and 
at  the  same  sale  the  cloth  copy  brought  six 
dollars.  Pendennis,  first  edition,  original  num- 
bers, covers  and  "ads,"  sold  in  1900  for  thirty 
dollars,  and  the  cloth  copy  in  1901  for  seven 
dollars  and  a  half.  The  Virginians,  original 
paper  covers,  brought  fifteen  dollars  and  a  half 
in  April,  1901,  and  the  cloth  copy  six  dollars.  I 
paid  twenty-five  dollars  for  my  copy  of  the 
Virginians,  in  paper  covers,  but  I  always  pay 
too  much,  because  I  am  always  in  a  hurry,  and  I 
wanted  that  first  edition  because  I  wished  to 
insert  in  it  a  precious  autograph  manuscript  of 
part  of  Chapter  xxviii.  of  the  novel,  as  well  as 
a  characteristic  letter  from  Thackeray  to  George 
William  Curtis:  "Who  can  be  the  friend  who 
asks  for  the  signature  of  the  unhappy  W.  M. 

be  a  reader  is  inconsistent  with  some  previous  remarks  ; 
but  I  am  not  given  to  consistency,  which  is  an  over-esti- 
mated virtue. 

87 


The  Diversions  of  a  Book-loDer 

Thackeray?"  While  there  is  a  difference,  I 
should  regard  six  dollars  and  seven  dollars  and 
a  half  as  rather  protracted  songs,  and  I  doubt  if 
Miss  Stone  could  have  been  rescued  from  the 
clutches  of  the  Bulgarian  bandits  for  so  small  a 
sum  as  thirty  dollars. 

The  millionaires  of  our  modem  civilization, 
awakened  to  the  idea  of  book-ownership  as  a 
badge  of  culture,  no  longer  buy  their  books 
by  the  square  yard,  according  to  the  ancient 
witticism,  but  they  exercise  a  wise  discretion  of 
their  own  or  choose  skilful  experts,  upon  whose 
trained  judgment  they  may  safely  rely..  The 
hopelessness  of  contending  with  the  wealthy  is 
not  a  new  experience.  Long  years  ago  the 
Rev.  Thomas  Baker  lamented  thus:  "I  begin 
to  complain  of  the  men  of  quality,  who  lay  out 
so  much  for  books,  and  give  such  prices  that 
there  is  nothing  to  be  had  for  poor  scholars, 
whereof  I  have  felt  the  effects ;  when  I  bid  a  fair 
price  for  an  old  book,  I  am  answered:  'The 
quality  will  give  twice  as  much,'  and  so  I  have 
done."  In  these  times  the  situation  is  worse 
than  ever.  We  poor  bourgeois  collectors,  as 
William  Carew  Hazlitt  calls  us,  find  ourselves 
hopelessly  left  at  the  post,  and  our  humble  bid 
is  swept  out  of  sight  by  the  bid  of  Croesus.  We 
are  forced  to  lie  in  ambush,  swooping  out  now 


The  DiDersions  of  a  Book-looer 

and  then  whenever  an  unsuspecting  and  un- 
expected "  find  "  comes  in  our  way,  or  we  betake 
ourselves  to  the  secluded  shop  on  the  side  street, 
or  to  the  quais  of  Paris,  where  we  indulge  in  the 
delusion  that  we  may  discover  those  bargains 
which  long  since  have  been  mere  dreams,  not 
to  be  realized  in  this  incarnation.  I  have  ex- 
plored those  quais  diligently,  but  with  Httle 
result,  because,  no  doubt,  I  was  merely  groping 
and  was  not  sufficiently  equipped  for  successful 
exploration.  One  delicious  being,  in  black 
whiskers  which  were  almost  improbable,  I  en- 
countered in  a  den  on  the  Quai  Voltaire,  where 
he  was  peacefully  partaking  of  something  closely 
resembling  absinthe  at  eleven  in  the  forenoon. 
From  him  I  procured  divers  volumes  of  an  un- 
common sort,  and  I  intrusted  to  him  the  task 
of  forwarding  to  America,  in  the  same  con- 
signment, a  miscellaneous  assortment  of  books 
which  had  encumbered  the  baggage  from  Lon- 
don to  Stockholm  and  thence  to  Hamburg  and 
Paris.  Later  on,  as  I  was  trying  my  restaurant 
French  upon  the  abnormally  stupid  dining-car 
attendant  who  infests  the  railway  -  train  to 
Calais,  it  flashed  across  my  mind  that  I  had 
been  somewhat  rash  in  giving  over  my  treasures 
as  well  as  my  good  francs  to  a  Parisian  gentle- 
man who  appeared  like  a  consolidation  of 
Alfred  de  Musset  and  Paul  Verlaine,  with  a  dash 

89 


The   Diuersions   of  a    Book-looer 

of  Mallarme  thrown  in.  It  gives  me  the  greatest 
pleasure  to  record  that  everything  was  duly- 
delivered  in  New  York  promptly,  without  even 
the  friction  of  the  customs,  and  it  is  a  solitary 
instance,  for  nothing  else  ever  came  to  me  from 
the  other  side  without  giving  more  trouble  than 
can  well  be  described.  I  doff  my  chapeau  to  my 
conscientious,  painstaking  quaffer  of  the  green 
beverage,  and  I  apologize  to  him  for  my  tem- 
porary distrust. 

With  much  anxiety  and  sore  tribulation  one 
may,  after  a  long  experience,  boast  of  possessing 
a  "  library  "  if  he  is  lucky  enough  to  find  a  place 
in  which  to  house  it  suitably,  a  difficult  task, 
as  those  who  have  tried  it  well  know. 

Mr.  Wilfer,  in  Our  Mutual  Friend,  had  a 
noble  ambition  to  be  once  arrayed  in  a  complete 
suit  of  new  garments,  from  hat  to  shoes;  and 
I  have  always  had  a  similar  desire  to  be  able, 
for  a  single  moment,  to  see  all  my  books  at  once, 
the  humble  and  the  precious,  the  commissioned 
officers  and  the  private  soldiers,  in  a  compre- 
hensive dress-parade,  passing  in  review.  One 
thing  is  certain:  such  a  result  is  not  to  be  had 
in  a  New  York  apartment-house.  The  only  way 
to  accomplish  it,  at  least  for  a  book-man  who 
has  neither  poverty  nor  riches,  is  to  fly  to  the 
country  and  build  for  himself  a  house  for  books, 

90 


The   Dioersions  of   a  Book-looer 

like  one  which  you  will  find  in  the  pleasant 
hills  of  Somerset  County,  New  Jersey,  where  a 
famous  jurist  of  our  time  enjoys  his  treas- 
ures and  finds  the  well-earned  pleasure  which 
is  the  just  reward  of  a  laborious  professional 
life. 

There  are  fewer  helps,  comforts,  and  consola- 
tions than  our  precious  books.  "  The  world  may 
be  kind  or  hostile;  it  may  seem  to  us  to  be 
hastening  on  the  wings  of  enlightenment  and 
progress  to  an  imminent  millennium,  or  it  may 
weigh  us  down  with  the  sense  of  insoluble 
difficulty  and  irremediable  wrong ;  but  whatever 
else  it  may  be,  so  long  as  we  have  good  health 
and  a  library,  it  can  never  be  dull."  Thus  saith 
Arthur  James  Balfour,  and  "if  I  were  an  Eng- 
lishman as  I  am  an  American,"  that  one  saying 
would  compel  me  always  to  give  him  my  vote. 
As  I  write,  he  is  assuming  the  rulership  of  the 
mighty  English  empire — the  real  ruler,  the  head 
of  the  ministry,  the  worthy  successor  of  his 
distinguished  uncle.  In  our  land  the  leader  of 
the  political  forces  is  seldom  as  eminent  in  the 
quiet  realm  of  Hterature  as  he  is  in  the  troubled 
dominion  of  statesmanship.  But  I  am  glad 
that  the  Premier  of  England  and  the  Premier  of 
the  United  States  of  America — if  you  will  pardon 
the  imperfect  analogy — are  both  men  of  letters 
as  well  as  of  politics  and  of  diplomacy. 

91 


The  DiiDcrsions   of  a  Book-louer 

Robert  Southey  is  said  to  have  been  the 
writer  most  deserving  of  the  title  "man  of 
letters."  I  doubt  if  many  readers  of  to-day 
trouble  themselves  to  take  from  the  shelves  one 
of  the  six  volumes  of  his  Life  and  Correspond- 
ence, edited  by  his  son,  the  Rev.  Charles  Cuth- 
bert  Southey,  pubHshed  over  half  a  century 
ago,  and  modestly  retiring  in  its  sober,  brown- 
cloth  binding;  yet  it  is  a  fascinating  hunting- 
ground  for  any  man  of  leisure  who  loves  some- 
thing better  than  the  stock-market  reports,  the 
records  of  the  golf  games,  and  the  latest  his- 
torical romances.  The  time  for  producing  such 
things  has  gone  by,  and  it  will  never  return ;  but 
the  world  will  go  on,  unmindful  of  what  it  has 
lost.  It  is  strange  to  recall  that  Southey,  who 
seems  old-fashioned  now,  was  derided  in  his 
time  as  an  innovator.  In  the  Edinburgh  Review 
of  a  century  ago — it  is  in  that  first  number,  of 
October,  1802 — the  stately  reviewer  thus  stalks 
solemnly  along  the  path:  "Poetry  has  this 
much,  at  least,  in  common  with  religion,  that 
its  standards  were  fixed  long  ago  by  certain 
inspired  writers  whose  authority  it  is  no  longer 
lawful  to  call  in  question.  .  .  .  The  author 
(Southey),  who  is  now  before  us,  belongs  to  a 
sect  of  poets  that  has  established  itself  in  this 
country  within  these  ten  or  twelve  years;  .  .  . 
they  are  dissenters  from  the  established  systems 

92 


The  Dioersions  of  a  Book-looer 

in  poetry  and  criticism."  It  is  a  lesson  which 
we  never  really  learn,  that  the  fashion  of  this 
world  passeth  away  and  that  only  the  old- 
fashioned  vices  are  forever  new-fashioned.  What 
has  become  of  those  standards  whose  authority 
could  not  be  questioned?  To  one  who  lived 
in  the  time  when  the  wonderful  Macaulay  was 
the  rising  star  in  the  historical  firmament  it  is 
quite  astonishing  to  read  of  him  as  an  example 
of  the  obsolete  school  of  history.  Even  Ban- 
croft is  to-day  "rather  the  companion  of  the 
scholar  than  of  the  patriot  reader,"  and  "is 
now  neglected  by  readers,"  while  "his  example 
is  avoided  by  writers."  ^  Yet  he  was  still 
systematically  engaged  in  his  task  as  late  as 
1883. 

Southey  was  a  student  who  dwelt  with  his 
books  and  loved  them  sincerely  for  what  they 
were  and  not  for  what  the  dealer  thought  of 
them.  In  those  days  the  collector  was  rara  avis 
— usually  a  wealthy  nobleman.  The  scholarly 
poet  writes  of  his  beloved  companions : 

My  days  among  the  dead  are  passed, 

Around  me  I  behold, 
Where'er  these  casual  eyes  are  cast, 

The  mighty  minds  of  old. 
My  never-failing  friends  are  they 
With  whom  I  converse  day  by  day. 

*  Albert  Bushnell  Hart,  International  Monthly,  1900. 
93 


The  Dioersions   of  a  Book-looer 

My  hopes  are  with  the  dead;  anon, 
My  place  with  them  will  be, 

And  I  with  them  shall  travel  on 
To  all  futurity, 

Yet  bearing  here  a  name,  I  trust, 

That  will  not  perish  in  the  dust. 

It  is  somewhat  out  of  date,  as  I  have  said,  to 
"quote  poetry,"  but  there  are  some  old  fashions 
which  do  no  harm,  and  I  am  willing  to  endure 
the  slings  and  arrows  of  the  outrageous  scoffers 
who  laugh  at  the  customs  of  our  forefathers. 
We  who  are  in  sympathy  with  the  kindly 
Southey  cannot  help  having  a  sense  of  sadness  in 
reading  these  lines,  but  it  is  a  sadness  more 
sweet  than  painful. 

The  vast  majority  of  the  readers  of  this 
generation  occupy  themselves  principally  with 
what  are  called  "novels."  These  sweets  have 
always  appealed  to  the  palate  of  mankind  from 
the  days  of  Boccaccio  and  of  Marguerite  de 
Navarre  to  those  of  Hall  Caine  and  of  wSir 
Gilbert  Parker.  I  do  not  wish  to  be  under- 
stood as  giving  to  Boccaccio  the  title  of  the 
first  of  the  novelists  or  to  Parker  the  distinction 
of  being  the  last  of  them,  although  the  lively 
M.P.  has  apparently  acquired  a  right  of  way  to 
the  seats  of  the  mighty.  Prehistoric  men,  no 
doubt,  found  novels  in  stones,  as  vShakespeare 
discovered    sermons   in    them.     I    forget    what 

94 


The   Dioersions  of  a   Book-looer 

Scotchman  it  was  who  revised  the  Duke's  speech 
so  as  to  read:  "Stones  in  the  running  brooks, 
sermons  in  books,  and  good  in  everything." 
One  pubHshing  house  receives,  on  an  average, 
one  hundred  and  five  manuscript  stories  each 
month.  Almost  every  one  who  can  procure 
pen,  paper,  and  ink  seems  eager  to  unfold  a  tale. 
There  was  a  certain  Pollok  who  wrote  something 
which  he  called  The  Course  of  Time,  sacred  to 
parsing  in  our  younger  days.  In  this  grave 
production  he  delivered  himself  of  the  following 
observations : 


...  A  novel  was  a  book 

Three-volumed  and  once  read,  and  oft  cramm'd  full 

Of  poisonous  error,  blackening  every  page; 

And  oftener  still  of  trifling,  second-hand 

Remark  and  old,  diseased,  and  putrid  thought 

And  miserable  incident;  at  war 

With  nature ;  with  itself  and  truth  at  war ; 

Yet  charming  still  the  greedy  reader  on. 


Pollok  was  needlessly  savage.  No  wonder 
that  he  died  before  he  was  twenty-nine,  and  in 
the  course  of  time  was  consigned  to  oblivion. 
He  must  have  selected  his  novels  with  very 
poor  judgment.  Men  may  come  and  men  may 
go,  but  novels  flow  on  forever. 

We  remember  that  no  less  personages  than 
Dr.   Samuel  Johnson    and   Edmund   Burke  sat 

95 


The  Dioersions  of  a  Book-looer 

up  all  night  to  finish  Miss  Burney's  Evelina, 
and  Warton  made  a  like  sacrifice  of  what  Miss 
Repplier  might  call  the  sleepy  hours  (which 
follow  the  dozy  ones)  to  read  Mrs.  Radcliffe's 
terrific  and  sensational  Mysteries  of  Udolpho, 
which  is  vastly  more  exciting  than  Evelina. 
Parenthetically,  it  is  somewhat  surprising  to 
find  Leigh  Hunt  mentioning  Miss  Burney's 
stories  as  "entertaining  but  somewhat  vulgar 
novels" ;  we  should  hardly  call  them  vulgar  now. 
I  suppose  that  the  word  "vulgar"  is  used  in  a 
conventional  sense,  as  characterizing  that  which 
is  not  fashionable.  Macaulay  said  of  Miss  Bur- 
ney  that  "she  first  showed  that  a  tale  might 
be  written  in  which  both  the  fashionable  and 
vulgar  life  of  London  might  be  exhibited  with 
great  force  and  with  broad,  comic  humor,  and 
which  yet  should  not  contain  a  single  line  in- 
consistent with  rigid  morality,  or  even  with 
virgin  delicacy."  Walter  Minto  said  of  Evelina 
that  "it  was  the  vulgar  characters  that  were 
particularly  commented  on  and  admired."*  So 
the  word  must  have  been  employed  to  designate 
that  which  belongs  to  the  great  masses  and  not 
that  which  is  meanly  and  offensively  low.  It  is 
amusing  to  Americans  to  be  informed  of  some 
of  the  reasons  why  Miss  Burney  was  able  to 

^Literature  of  the  Georgian  Era  (Minto),  io6. 
96 


The   Dioersions   of  a   Book-loocr 

depict  "vulgar"  or  ordinary  persons.  Her 
father,  Dr.  Charles  Burney,  "the  most  fashion- 
able music-master  of  his  generation,"  was,  it 
appears,  "not  a  proud  man,"  and  "he  allowed 
his  children  to  play  with  the  children  of  a 
wigmaker  in  the  adjoining  house.  And  among 
these  humbler  acquaintances  Miss  Burney  pick- 
ed up  that  acquaintance  with  life  in  a  differ- 
ent plane  of  society  which  made  the  fortune  of 
her  first  novel."  I  know,  of  course,  that  Dr. 
Burney  belonged  to  the  Johnson-Reynolds  circle, 
but  yet  it  seems  to  me  that  the  barriers  of 
society  which  separated  the  fashionable  music- 
master's  household  from  the  wigmaker' s  brood 
were  amusingly  artificial,  reminding  one  of  the 
old  order  of  things  in  Washington  City  be- 
fore the  war,  when  the  $1600  clerks,  who  were 
scorned  by  the  $2000  variety,  would  not  per- 
mit their  families  to  associate  with  those  of 
the  $1200  clerks.  I  belonged  to  a  $1600  clerk, 
and  I  wonder  now  whether  the  daughter  of  the 
$2000  man  with  whom  I  used  to  play  childish 
games  considered  me  vulgar. 

People  may  not  permit  their  novel  reading  to 
interfere  with  their  customary  slumbers,  but 
they  buy  and  presumably  read  an  enormous 
quantity  of  fiction  without  pausing  to  consider 
whether  or  not  it  is  true  that  the  novel  is  an 
intellectual,  artistic  luxury,  as  Marion  Crawford 
7  97 


The   Diuersions  o^  a  Book-loDcr 

has  it,  or  "history  that  didn't  happen,"  as  it 
is  styled  by  that  admirable  man,  John  Richard 
Green.  The  writers  of  these  days,  whose  books 
sell  by  the  tens  of  thousands,  certainly  act  upon 
what  Wilkie  Collins  called  the  opinion  that  the 
primary  object  of  a  work  of  fiction  should  be 
to  tell  a  story.  All  the  world  loves  a  good 
story. 

As  the  vogue  of  Richardson,  Fielding,  and 
Smollett  has  gone  by,  and  some  of  our  nine- 
teenth-century favorites,  George  Eliot  among  the 
number,  are  slipping  quietly  into  the  category 
of  the  classical,  shall  we  say  that  Thackeray 
and  Dickens  are  passing  out  of  the  category 
of  the  popular?  Perish  the  thought!  They 
come  first  to  our  minds  when  we  reflect  about 
novelists;  and  when  we  compare  them — but  I 
am  weary  of  the  comparing.  What  does  it 
profit  us  to  draw  parallels?  Let  us  rather 
consider  what  editions  are  the  best  for  us  to 
have,  and  to  give  up  comparisons  which  are 
proverbially  odious.  I  say  proverbially,  because 
the  phrase  seems  to  have  been  used  by  at  least 
eight  famous  writers  of  olden  times,  including 
John  Fortescue  (1395-1485),  Kit  Marlowe,  Dr. 
Donne,  Lyly,  Burton,  Heywood,  Herbert,  and 
Grange — perhaps,  also,  by  Cervantes,  but  I  am 
not  sure.  When  Shakespeare  said  "compari- 
sons are  odorous,"  Dogberry  was  quoting,  as  he 

98 


The   Dioersions   of  a  Book-looer 

thought,  a  familiar  saying.  I  will  wager  that 
nine-tenths  of  the  reading  public  ascribe  the 
perversion  to  Mrs.  Malaprop. 

Recurring  to  our  novelists,  we  are  having  new 
editions  given  to  us  from  day  to  day;  but  if 
we  discard  first  editions,  which  constitute  a  class 
by  themselves,  I  think  I  prefer  as  books  to  be 
read,  although  perhaps  not  the  prizes  of  the 
auction  sales,  the  Riverside  Press  Thackeray 
and  the  Chapman  &  Hall  Illustrated  Library 
Edition  of  Dickens;  but  the  Smith  &  Elder 
Thackeray  is  by  no  means  to  be  despised.  They 
are  so  easy  to  handle,  a  great  boon  to  the  reader. 
They  belong  to  the  "books  that  you  can  carry 
in  your  hand,"  which  Dr.  Johnson  says  are  the 
most  useful.  There  are,  to  be  sure,  much  more 
splendid  editions  of  Thackeray  than  those  I  have 
mentioned,  and  as  a  rule  the  English  publish- 
ers give  us  better  type  than  our  own  beloved 
printers,  or  they  used  to  do  so,  I  humbly  confess ; 
but  that  is  not  the  point.  I  love  comfortable 
books;  large-paper  volumes  are  attractive  but 
unwieldy  —  fit  for  the  bookcases,  but  clumsy 
for  all  other  purposes.  Richard  Heber  disliked 
them  because  they  occupied  so  much  room  on 
his  shelves.  They  are  appropriate  to  history, 
but  not  to  biography,  fiction,  or  literary  gossip. 
As  for  the  St.  Dunstan  Dickens,  $130,000  a  set, 
it  is  simply  unspeakable. 

99 


The    Diocrsions  of  a  Book-locer 

Many  of  us  are  incompetent  to  express  opin- 
ions in  regard  to  first  editions,  because  of  insane 
infatuation  with  them.  Yet  any  one  must  admit 
that  a  Dickens  Christmas  story,  in  the  original 
binding,  is  by  no  means  to  be  despised,  such  a 
one  as  the  copy  of  the  Christmas  Carol,  which 
was  sold  with  Thackeray's  library  and  con- 
tained the  inscription,  "W.  M.  Thackeray,  from 
Charles  Dickens  (whom  he  made  very  happy 
once  a  long  way  from  home)."  It  is  pleasant 
to  remember  that  it  was  eagerly  competed  for, 
and  that  it  finally  became  the  property  of 
Queen  Victoria  for  the  sum  of  £2^  10s.  But 
consider  the  familiar  instance  of  Poe's  Tamer- 
lane, which  in  the  original  paper  cover  sold  for 
$1850  in  1893;  bound  by  Lortic  at  great  ex- 
pense, the  same  copy  was  sold  in  the  Maxwell 
sale  in  1895  for  $1450,  and  in  1900  it  was  again 
sold  in  the  McKee  collection  for  $2050,  The 
variations  in  price  are  instructive.  The  poems 
contained  in  the  book  would  be  called  mediocre 
by  any  competent  critic,  although  Mr.  Wood- 
berry  says  that  there  is  some  autobiographic 
interest  in  certain  passages.  The  book  is  rare, 
of  course,  but  there  are  others  which  are  just 
as  rare  which  do  not  command  half  the  money. 
Mr.  McKee's  Shakespeare,  eight  volumes,  Edin- 
burgh edition  of  1771 — Robert  Bums' s  copy, 
with  his  autograph  on  the  title-page  of  volume 
100 


The   Diuersions   of  a  Book-looer 

I. — brought  $888  only.  I  am  not  going  to  ex- 
plain it,  for  the  simple  reason  that  I  do  not  know 
how  to  do  it. 

The  permanency  of  literary  association  far 
surpasses  that  of  merely  historical  association. 
The  interest  which  every  one  has  in  the  sup- 
posititious "Old  Curiosity  Shop,"  the  house  of 
Mr.  Dombey,  and  the  mansion  occupied  by 
Mr.  Boffin  —  "a  comer  house  not  far  from 
Cavendish  Square" — supposed  to  have  been  at 
one  time  the  abode  of  Miss  Elizabeth,  Master 
George,  Aunt  Jane,  and  Uncle  Parker,  is  prover- 
bial, and  altogether  human  and  natural.  Every 
one  loves  to  look  upon  No.  i  Devonshire  Terrace, 
where  the  great  man  wrote  the  Carol,  Copper- 
field,  Barnaby  Rudge,  Chuzzlewit,  and  Dombey 
and  Son,  however  indifferent  he  may  be  to 
the  Temple  Church,  the  Fire  Monument,  or  the 
queer  old  palace  of  St.  James.  We  are  fond  of 
identifying  places  with  the  inventions  of  nov- 
elists. In  Rome,  Hilda's  tower  is  pointed  out 
to  the  worshippers  of  Hawthorne,  admiring  en- 
thusiasts who  would  be  bored  by  the  Tower 
of  London;  and  the  council  chamber  where 
Richard  H.  abdicated  the  throne  is  tame  in 
comparison  with  Queen  Anne's  Tavern,  near 
St.  Paul's,  where  Johnson  was  a  regular  visitor, 
if  the  gossipers  can  be  believed.     At  lovely  Sans 

lOI 


The   Dioersions  of   a  Book-looer 

Souci  there  is  far  more  of  Voltaire  than  of  the 
great  Frederick.  In  Skansen,  at  Stockholm,  we 
visit  the  transplanted  summer  cottage  of  Swe- 
denborg  with  respectful  admiration.  We  Amer- 
icans are  wont  to  gaze  with  proud  satisfaction 
upon  Sunnyside,  made  immortal  by  Irving's 
gentle,  playful  fancy,  and  we  even  make  pil- 
grimages to  Walden  in  honor  of  Thoreau,  the 
man  of  whom  John  Burroughs  said,  "He  is  al- 
most as  local  as  a  woodchuck."  Poe's  Fordham 
cottage  has,  I  fear,  been  moved  in  the  march 
of  suburban  improvement,  and  I  sorrow  at  the 
unfortimate  destruction  of  Cooper's  "  Otsego 
Hall."  Arthur  Bartlett  Maurice  has  given  us 
an  entertaining  monograph  about  New  York  in 
Fiction,  adorned  with  the  reproductions  which 
the  marv'cllous  development  of  photography 
has  made  possible,  and  it  is  welcome  to  every 
one  who  has  in  his  being  a  spark  of  the  book- 
man's fire.  It  was  no  easy  task,  and,  although 
it  is  remarkably  well  done,  I  fear  that  New 
York  can  never  hope  to  possess  associations 
like  those  which  .^aurence  Hutton  so  gracefully 
preserves  for  us  in  his  series  of  "  Literary  Land- 
marks." It  is  difficult  to  impart  a  tinge  of  ro- 
mance to  a  house  on  Washington  Square  or  to 
a  grim  dwelling  on  the  corner  of  Ninth  Street 
and  Fifth  Avenue,  wanting,  as  they  are,  in  act- 
ual  antiquity;    while   the   Grand   Central   Sta- 

I02 


The   Diuersions  of  a  Book-loDcr 

tion  defies  even  Howells's  power  of  investing 
the  commonplace  with  interest.  The  few  build- 
ings we  had  begun  to  cherish  for  their  literary 
associations  have  been  swept  away  by  the 
remorseless  hand  of  utilitarian  improvement. 
The  old  University  in  Washington  Square, 
which  had  a  sort  of  picturesqueness  in  its 
architecture,  sacred  to  Cecil  Dreeme  and  our 
early  war -martyr,  Theodore  Winthrop,  and 
Colonel  Carter's  curious  abiding-place,  destroy- 
ed in  the  inevitable  alteration  of  No.  58  West 
Tenth  Street,  have  left  behind  them  only  a 
fleeting  memory.  The  unattractive  house  on 
the  comer  of  Fifth  Avenue  and  Thirty-fourth 
Street,  which  the  great  shop-keeper  thought  to 
be  destined  to  remain  as  a  palace  and  a  show, 
took  on  its  slight  literary  atmosphere  when,  as 
the  Manhattan  Club,  it  figured  in  poor  Ford's 
Peter  Stirling,  but  it  has  been  pulled  to  pieces 
to  make  way  for  a  modem  structure,  which  is 
more  sightly  than  its  tasteless  predecessor.  I 
remember  that  Mayor  Hoffman  suggested  to 
Mr.  Stewart  that  the  big  Thirty-fourth  Street 
pile  of  marble  should  be  devoted  to  the  purpose 
of  a  residence  for  the  municipal  chief -magistrate, 
but  the  idea  was  not  received  with  enthusiasm. 
The  only  marks  which  distinguish  the  abode  of 
a  mayor  are  the  two  lamps  which  adorn  the  en- 
trance, the  city,  as  I\Ir.  Evarts  said  in  the  Weed- 

103 


The   Dioersions  of  a   Book-looer 

Opdyke  trial,  being  wiser  than  Diogenes  and 
using  two  lanterns  to  discover  an  honest  man. 
The  old  Colonnade  Row  on  Lafayette  Place, 
where,  in  The  Ralstons,  Marion  Crawford  made 
the  Crowdies  dwell,  and  where,  a  generation  ago, 
the  kindly,  persuasive  Dwight  taught  to  us  in- 
cipient attorneys  the  principles  of  the  law, 
will  be  gone  before  these  pages  shall  have 
attained  the  dignity  of  print.  The  iconoclast, 
however,  dwells  in  other  climes  and  pursues  his 
destructive  occupation  in  other  towns  than  ours. 
Already  the  annihilating  touch  of  the  reformer 
is  busy  in  the  heart  of  London,  and  the  widening 
of  the  Strand  will  almost  rival  the  Great  Fire 
as  a  consumer  of  monuments.  Fortunately  we 
may  still  find,  hiding  in  its  spacious  grounds, 
Holland  House,  where  Addison  lived  and  Ma- 
caulay  talked;  the  Albany,  scarcely  ancient  as 
yet,  where  Monk  Lewis,  Canning,  and  Byron 
sojourned;  and  Staple  Inn  only  partially  re- 
stored, and  therefore  practically  intact,  where 
Johnson  wrote  Rasselas.  In  Paris,  despite  the 
ravages  of  the  third  Napoleon  and  the  later 
work  of  civic  improvement,  we  may  view  the 
home  of  Victor  Hugo,  and,  in  the  monotonous 
circle  of  the  Place  Vendome,  the  house  where 
Chopin  died. 

George  Augustus  Sala  used  to  say  that  he 
knew    a    worthy    citizen    of    Edinburgh    who 

104 


The   Dioersions  of  a  Book-loDer 

settled  his  quarterly  accounts  with  unfailing 
punctuality,  but  always  deducted  fifteen  per 
cent,  on  the  ground  that  he  had  been  intimate 
with  Sir  Walter  Scott,  Perhaps  this  was  carry- 
ing the  power  of  literary  association  a  little  too 
far. 


VI 


Of  American  novelists  and  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson; 
with  some  remarks  about  criticism. 

IF  the  book  -  lover  cares  to  devote  a  little  time 
to  the  study  of  good,  old  English,  he  may 
perhaps  glance  over  the  pages  of  Areopagitica, 
in  the  neat  edition  published  by  the  Grolier  Club 
in  1890,  with  Lowell's  graceful  introduction. 
"  Bookes,"  said  the  great  poet,  "demeane  them- 
selves as  well  as  men.  .  .  .  Books  are  not  ab- 
solutely dead  things,  but  doe  contain  a  potencie 
of  life  in  them  to  be  as  active  as  that  soule  was 
whose  progeny  they  are:  nay  they  do  preserve 
as  in  a  violl  the  purest  efhcacie  and  extraction 
of  that  living  intellect  that  bred  them.  .  .  .  Un- 
lesse  warinesse  be  us'd,  as  good  almost  kill  a 
Man  as  kill  a  good  Book ;  who  kills  a  man  kills 
a  reasonable  creature,  God's  Image;  but  hee 
who  destroyes  a  good  Booke,  kills  reason  itselfe, 
kills  the  image  of  God,  as  it  were  in  the  eye. 
Many  a  man  lives  a  burden  to  the  Earth ;  but  a 
good  Booke  is  the  pretious  life-blood  of  a  master 
spirit,  imbalm'd  and  treasur'd  up  on  purpose  to 
a  life  beyond  life." 

106 


The    Dioersions  of  a  Book-louer 

The  dignity  of  books,  as  thus  announced  by 
the  famous  creator  of  Paradise  Lost,  is  not  as 
manifest  in  these  days  as  it  was  in  the  olden 
time.  Novels  have  done  much  to  impair  their 
distinction;  and  yet  novels  are  not  always 
trifles,  and  the  study  of  them  is  the  study  of 
contemporaneous  life,  although  few  novel  read- 
ers are  much  concerned  about  the  taste  or  the 
utility  of  what  they  are  reading.  Some  of  our 
old  American  novelists  may  be  worth  a  moment's 
kindly  thought. 

It  is  possible  that  some  living  men  or  wom- 
en—  women  are  the  most  voracious  consum- 
ers of  fiction  —  have  read  all  of  the  works  of 
Charles  Brockden  Brown,  the  so-called  pioneer 
of  American  letters,  but  I  am  disposed  to  be 
incredulous  about  it.  Until  Cooper  invaded  the 
field,  Brown  was  the  most  eminent  story- writer 
in  this  promising  country,  as  any  one  may  learn 
by  consulting  the  Cyclopcsdia  of  Biography,  to 
whose  enticing  pages  the  student  is  referred. 
Brown  was  only  thirty-nine  when  he  died,  but 
he  wrote  voluminously,  and  he  should  be  fa- 
mous for  his  efforts  to  establish  a  real  literary 
magazine  which  should  not  be  a  mere  annex 
to  a  publishing  house.  Donald  Grant  Mitchell 
conceded  that  Brown  was  an  interesting  figure 
in  the  history  of  American  literary  development, 
but  he  says  that  he  "could  never  bring  himself 

107 


The  Dioersions   of  a  Book-lODer 

into  a  state  of  enjoyment  in  reading  one  of  his 
books — -not  even  for  a  dozen  consecutive  pages."  * 
In  this  twentieth  century  few  readers  know 
anything  of  Wieland  or  of  Arthur  Mervyn,  and 
yet  the  vivid  description  of  the  yellow-fever 
scourge  in  Philadelphia  is  said  almost  to  rank 
with  De  Foe's  story  of  the  London  Plague. 
"Wieland  is  a  grewsome  story,"  says  Mitchell. 
Arthur  Mervyn  "might  stop  a  hundred  pages 
before  it  ends."  I  have  seen  a  goodly  number  of 
books  in  my  time,  but  I  have  never  encountered 
a  complete  set  of  Brown's.  American  though 
he  was,  he  was  destined  to  fall  into  oblivion 
here  -until  his  novels  began  to  be  read  and 
praised  in  England.  Not  long  after  Brown's 
untimely  death  his  Memoirs  were  produced 
by  William  Dunlap,  historian  of  the  American 
stage  and  godfather  of  the  Dimlap  Society 
which  has  given  us  so  many  interesting  reprints 
and  essays  in  dramatic  literature.  I  believe 
that  the  American  edition  was  published  in 
1815;  my  own  copy  is  the  English  edition,  en- 
titled "Memoirs  of  Charles  Brockden  Brown, 
the  American  Novelist,  author  of  Wieland, 
Ormond,  Arthur  Mervyn,  etc.,  with  selections 
from  his  original  letters  and  miscellaneous 
writings,"  and  printed  for  Henry  Colbum  &  Co., 

•  American  Lands  and  Letters,  vol.  i.,  181. 
108 


The   Dioersions   of  a   Book-loocr 

by  J.  Green,  Leicester  Square,  1822.  On  the 
whole,  it  is  a  poor  thing,  but  there  is  much  in 
the  faded,  wide-margined,  sHghtly  foxed  pages 
which  has  a  certain  interest.  "  Books  are  too 
often  insipid";  "I  hate  a  lecturer";  "Few 
labour  whose  wealth  allows  them  to  dispense 
with  it";  "A  female  cannot  evince  a  more 
egregious  negligence  of  reputation  than  by 
personating  a  man."  Perhaps  these  remarks 
are  not  strikingly  new,  but  they  are  as  true  to- 
day as  they  were  when  Brown  uttered  them; 
and  it  required  long  years  of  patient  endurance 
to  bring  mankind  to  the  point  of  confessing 
a  hatred  for  lecturers  and  their  "arid  dogma- 
tism." Brown  once  had  an  odd  mishap,  owing 
to  the  vagaries  of  the  printer.  He  wrote  for 
an  Edentown  newspaper  a  poetic  address  to  Dr. 
Franklin,  praising  the  sage  and  setting  forth  how 
Philosophy  "  turns  with  horror  and  disgust  from 
those  who  have  won  the  laurel  of  victory  in  the 
field  of  battle  to  this  her  favorite  candidate, 
who  had  never  participated  in  such  bloody 
glory."  With  a  fine  sense  of  the  fitness  of 
things,  Typo  substituted  the  name  of  Washing- 
ton for  that  of  Franklin,  indulging  in  a  mali- 
cious ingenuity  peculiar  to  his  tribe. 

Brown  was  probably  searching  for  an  excuse 
to  avoid  uncongenial  work  when  he  refused 
to  be  a  lawyer,  professing  "that  he  could  not 

109 


The   Diuersions  of  a  Book-loDcr 

reconcile  it  with  his  ideas  of  morality  to  become 
indiscriminately  the  defender  of  right  or  wrong." 
Dunlap  says  that  in  order  to  support  him- 
self against  the  persuasions  of  his  friends  "he 
resorted  to  all  the  sophisms  and  paradoxes  with 
which  ignorance  and  ingenious  prejudice  has  as- 
sailed the  science  of  the  practice  of  the  law." 
It  is  amusing,  however,  to  note  that  the  unin- 
formed person  who  thinks  lawyers  more  devoid 
of  conscience  than  other  men  flourished  as  lux- 
uriantly a  century  ago  as  he  does  in  modem 
times.  It  is  a  shallow  and  ill-nourished  mind 
which  supposes  that  in  all  controversies  one 
side  is  entirely  right  and  the  other  side  entirely 
wrong;  that  any  human  being  may  in  advance 
decide  the  merits  of  every  dispute  without  full 
investigation,  and  that  every  lawyer  is  willing  to 
espouse  any  cause  without  regard  to  its  moral 
aspect. 

But  it  is  an  old  heresy,  and  Ben  Jonson  an- 
ticipated Brockden  Brown  when  he  said: 

The  lawyer 
Gives  forked  counsel;  takes  provoking  gold, 
On  either  hand,  and  puts  it  up 
So  wise,  so  grave,  of  so  perplex'd  a  tongue, 
And  loud  withal,  that  would  not  wag,  nor  scarce 
Lie  still  without  a  fee. 

Gay  was  equally  unmerciful  when  he  scored 
the  long-robed  tribe: 

no 


The  Diversions  of  a  Book-locer 

I  know  you  lawyers  can,  with  ease, 
Twist  words  and  meanings  as  you  please; 
That  language  by  your  skill  made  pliant, 
Will  tend  to  favor  every  client; 
That  'tis  the  fee  directs  the  sense 
To  make  out  either  side's  pretence.* 

Thomson  adds  his  slur: 

These 
Insnare  the  wretched  in  the  toils  of  law, 
Fomenting  discord,  and  perplexing  right; 
An  iron -race.  ^ 

All  this  comes  from  the  natural  disposition  of 
men  to  be  humorous  and  sarcastic  at  the  ex- 
pense of  the  so-called  "learned  professions."  I 
have  often  thought  seriously  of  this  tendency  to 
jest  at  the  men  who  are  the  trusted  advisers  of 
their  fellow-men  with  regard  to  their  business, 
their  health,  and  their  religion.  Irving  Browne 
says  in  Lawyers  and  Literature :  "To  call  a 
clergyman  a  hypocrite,  a  physician  a  murder- 
er, and  a  lawyer  a  liar,  has  long  been  one  of 
the  favorite  amusements  of  a  numerically  con- 
siderable part  of  mankind."  We  find  the  me- 
chanic who  cannot  comprehend  how  a  man  can 
be  of  use  unless  he  toils  with  his  hands,  the 
merchant  who  does  not  scruple  to  get  the  better 
of  a  customer  in  the  barter  and  trade  which 

*  Gay,  Fables,  part  i.,  2. 
^  Thomson,  Autumn. 

Ill 


The  Dioersions   of  a  Book-looer 

make  up  his  life,  and  the  stockbroker  who  de- 
rives his  princely  revenues  from  a  pursuit  not 
wholly  disassociated  from  that  of  the  gambler, 
all  disposed  to  sneer  at  the  man  who,  they  say, 
will  advocate  any  cause  if  he  is  paid  to  do  it,  and 
impoverishes  his  clients  in  his  insatiate  greed 
for  what  they  term  "fat  fees."  But  the  man 
who  studies  the  methods  of  the  mechanic,  the 
merchant,  and  the  stockbroker  will  find  that  they 
are  not  much  better  than  their  professional 
neighbors.  The  men  who  think  it  decent  and 
proper  to  decry  the  lawyer  are  usually  devoted- 
ly trustful  towards  their  own  particular  legal 
advisers,  just  as  they  are  towards  the  doctor 
who  attends  to  their  precious  health  and  tow- 
ards the  minister  who  looks  after  the  welfare 
of  their  immortal  souls.  On  the  whole,  I  think 
they  rely  more  on  their  attorneys  than  upon 
their  clergymen,  for  they  take  a  greater  interest 
in  their  property  than  in  their  future  state.  The 
people,  who  are  usually  right,  seem  to  choose  for 
their  rulers  the  men  of  the  law.  I  venture  to 
say  that  wherever  we  find  the  forces  of  civ- 
ilization at  their  highest,  wherever  we  find 
freedom,  sound  government,  true  manhood 
triumphant,  we  shall  find  the  lawyers  predom- 
inant. 

Having  thus  relieved  my  mind  and  injudicious- 
ly disclosed  my  sensitive  nature,   I  may  now 

112 


The  Diocrsions   of  a  Book-looer 

attempt  to  recover  the  lost  thread  of  my  dis- 
course concerning  early  American  fiction. 

The  novelist's  fame  must  needs  be  transitory, 
and  the  day  is  not  far  distant  when  even  Hall 
Caine,  Crockett,  Sir  Gilbert  Parker,  Barrie,  and 
Laura  Jean  Libbey  (if  that  is  her  name)  will  be 
as  obsolete  as  our  Quaker  pioneer,  Brockden 
Brown.  I  am  glad,  however,  to  observe  that 
the  first  edition  of  Arthur  Mervyn  (1799)  brought 
$6,50,  and  one  of  Wieland  (1798)  sold  for  $7 
at  the  McKee  sale,  which  proves  that  an  early 
novelist  has  a  value  to  the  collector  if  not  to  the 
person  who  reads  as  he  i*uns. 

I  doubt  whether  obscurity  will  ever  overtake 
Brown's  immediate  and  notable  successor,  James 
Fenimore  Cooper.  I  am  inclined  to  pity  the 
American  who  cannot  enjoy  his  novels.  It  is 
true  that  they  are  out  of  date,  and  it  may  be 
that  the  present  generation  regards  them  as 
stiff,  antiquated,  and  verbose ;  but  every  library 
should  possess  the  thirty -two -volume  edition 
with  the  Darley  engravings.  Was  it  not  a  de- 
lightfully simple  time  when  Morris  and  Willis 
were  our  poets,  and  nothing  was  really  complete 
without  engravings  by  Felix  0.  C.  Darley?  No- 
body in  these  days  possesses  such  a  monopoly 
as  Darley  had  in  the  fifties  of  the  nineteenth 
century. 

Any  discriminating  person  who  reads  for 
8  113 


The  Diversions   of  a  Book-looer 

something  beyond  mere  amusement  must  be 
fond  of  Cooper,  not  perhaps  of  the  books  which 
deal,  somewhat  tediously,  with  certain  social 
conditions  in  his  native  land,  long  since  stale 
and  obsolete,  but  of  the  sea-tales  and  the  Indian 
stories,  all  of  them  full  of  charm.  It  is  inter- 
esting to  know  that  while  Cooper's  experience 
in  the  navy  presumably  qualified  him  for  the 
writing  of  sea  -  romances,  he  had  little  or  no 
personal  knowledge  of  American  Indians.  I 
think  he  never  saw  one  of  them  unless  it  was  a 
dignified  person  in  a  top-hat,  Hke  the  one  pointed 
out  to  me  when  I  was  a  boy  in  Washington, 
tempore  Buchanan  —  a  worthy  brave  who  was 
visiting  the  capital  for  reasons  not  wholly  un- 
connected with  finance,  and  who  disappointed 
me  greatly  because  he  had  no  feathers,  paint,  or 
tomahawk.  I  may  be  wrong  about  Cooper's 
unfamiliarity  with  the  living  Indian.  I  seldom 
dare  to  say  anything  positively,  because  I  am 
convinced  that  the  man  who  dogmatically  as- 
serts anything  is  usually  mistaken. 

Jupiter  nods  sometimes,  and  Cooper  nodded 
often,  but  numerous  and  manifest  as  his  faults 
may  be,  we  cannot  resist  the  sweep  and  power 
of  his  best  work.  There  are  tiresome  pages  in 
The  Pioneers,  and  even  in  The  Last  of  the 
Mohicans,  but  there  is  a  mellow,  natural  glow 
in  one,  and  plenty  of  stirring  adventure  and 
114 


The   Dioersions   of   a  Book-looer 

healthy,  out-of-door  life  in  the  other.  Never- 
theless, one  cannot  deny  that  Bret  Harte  was 
justified  in  his  imitation  of  the  style  of  The 
Pioneers.  In  one  of  the  "Condensed  Novels," 
"the  Judge"  says:  "Genevra,  the  logs  which 
compose  yonder  fire  seem  to  have  been  in- 
cautiously chosen.  The  sibilation  produced  by 
the  sap,  which  exudes  copiously  therefrom,  is 
not  conducive  to  composition."  "  I  see,  father," 
Genevra  replies,  "but  I  thought  it  would  be 
preferable  to  the  constant  crepitation  which  is 
apt  to  attend  the  combustion  of  more  seasoned 
ligneous  fragments." 

This  is  a  legitimate  burlesque  of  Cooper's 
■conversations,  for  it  must  be  admitted  that  he 
does  not  shine  in  that  branch  of  the  art.  But 
he  is  not  much  worse  than  most  of  the  writers  of 
his  day.  We  are  apt  to  forget  that  fashions  of 
speech  change  with  the  times.  I  was  reminded 
of  this  when  a  few  days  ago  I  undertook  to  read 
a  collection  of  the  later  writings  of  Charles  Far- 
rar  Browne,  the  beloved  Artemus  Ward,  and  his 
facetious  slang  was  almost  as  antiquated  as  the 
humor  of  Ralph  Roister  Bolster,  but  it  was  only 
forty  years  old.  The  same  idea  must  occur  to 
any  one  who  tries  to  enjoy  the  preadamite  jo- 
cosity of  Mortimer  Thompson,  who  considered 
it  comical  to  call  himself  "Q.  K.  Philander 
Doesticks,  P.B.,"  the  last  two  letters  standing 
115 


The   DiDcrsions   of   a   Book-louer 

for  "  Perfect  Brick."  Yet  there  were  those  who 
thought  that  sort  of  thing  laughable  when 
Plancus  was  Consul,  and  tolerated  such  traves- 
ties as  "  Nothing  to  Do,"  "  Nothing  to  Say,"  and 
"  Nothing  to  Eat,"  supposed  to  be  side-splitting 
imitations  of  WilHam  Allen  Butler's  "Nothing 
to  Wear,"  then  world-famous  and  even  now  not 
forgotten. 

We  may  smile  at  Cooper's  mannerisms  and 
regard  with  wondering  but  amused  eyes  the 
dull,  insipid,  doll-like  heroines  who  infest  his 
pages  and  who  express  their  proper  and  in- 
nocuous sentiments  in  the  choicest  copy-book 
fashion.  But  Dickens  and  even  Walter  Scott 
are  open  to  a  like  objection.  We  judge  of 
Dickens  by  Wilkins  Micawber  and  Sam  Weller 
rather  than  by  the  colorless  maidens  and  unin- 
teresting ingenues  who  merely  supply  a  back- 
ground for  the  flesh-and-blood  creations  of  the 
great  bourgeois  novelist.  We  may  venture  to 
doubt  whether  there  were  actually  such  eloquent, 
high-minded,  and  ingenuous  savages  as  Uncas 
and  Chingachgook,  or  whether  any  such  re- 
markable sailor  as  Tom  Coffin  ever  trod  a  deck ; 
but  the  charm  is  there,  say  what  you  will,  and 
there  was  a  man  who  stood  behind  the  pen 
which  wrote  the  Cooper  tales.  Faults  of  style 
count  but  little  if  the  thought  is  strong  and 
manly.  A  page  of  Cooper  is  worth  volumes  of 
ii6 


The   Dioersions  of  a   Book-looer 

such  triflers  as  Le  Gallienne,  Oscar  Wilde,  and 
the  others  of  that  ilk.  The  stalwart  American 
has  the  vigor  of  the  pure,  open  air,  and  the 
others  have  the  sickly  steam-heat  of  artificial 
modernity.  I,  for  one,  am  not  ashamed  to 
surrender  myself  to  the  fascinations  of  Fenimore. 
We  may  discard  that  first,  rather  timid  venture, 
Precaution,  for  no  living  person,  except  possibly 
Professor  Lounsbury,  ever  read  it,  but  we  must 
yield  to  the  attractions  of  The  Spy,  if  we  have 
concealed  aboiit  us  the  smallest  atom  of  patriot- 
ism. Prosy  as  Lionel  Lincoln  may  be,  the 
account  of  the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill  is  brilliant, 
and  I  am  ashamed  of  any  countryman  of  mine 
who  does  not  thrill  in  the  reading  of  it;  and 
The  Deerslayer,  with  all  its  insignificant  imper- 
fections, must  appeal  to  the  lover  of  adventure 
and  of  the  beautiful  in  nature,  the  healthy, 
sound-minded  man  who  has  good,  rich  blood  in 
his  veins. 

Mr.  Samuel  L.  Clemens,  more  commonly 
known  to  fame  and  to  the  booksellers'  stalls  as 
Mark  Twain,  has  seen  fit  to  ridicule  Cooper 
elaborately  and  unmercifully  in  an  article  which 
might  well  have  been  suffered  to  perish  with 
the  ephemeral  periodical  in  which  it  originally 
made  its  appearance.  It  has,  however,  been 
reproduced  in  an  expensive  edition  of  the 
author's  works,  at  the  robber  price  of  $io  a 
117 


The   Dioersions  of  a   Book-looer 

volume,  and  I  am  a  sad  and  impoverished 
subscriber.  The  bitter,  sarcastic,  vitriolic  crit- 
icism is  to  be  preserved  for  posterity,  and  I 
cannot  refrain  from  making  my  indignant  if 
ineffective  protest. 

I  admire  Mark  and  I  love  Cooper.  Mark, 
having  attained  popularity  by  the  judicious  use 
of  a  sort  of  humor  which  is  liked  by  most  men, 
has  no  hesitation  in  expressing  opinions  con- 
cerning literature,  politics,  and  all  other  im- 
portant things  of  life,  and  he  sometimes  errs,  as 
he  did  in  his  famous  speech  at  the  banquet  in 
honor  of  Whittier's  seventieth  birthday.  We 
do  not  think  the  less  of  him  for  these  escapades, 
nor  do  we  deny  that  his  views  are  worthy  of 
respect,  but  one  may  be  permitted  to  suggest 
that  they  are  not  so  absolutely  conclusive  as  to 
be  binding  and  unquestionable.  We  are  not 
compelled  to  accept  Mark  Twain  as  our  supreme 
arbiter  in  literature,  however  heartily  we  may 
enjoy  his  many  original  and  entertaining  books. 

The  irrepressible  author  of  that  polished  idyl, 
"The  Jumping  Frog,"  does  not  agree  with  the 
distinguished  American  poet  who,  according  to 
Julian  Hawthorne,  declared  Cooper  to  be  a 
greater  poet  than  Hesiod  or  Theocritus,  nor 
with  a  certain  William  Makepeace  Thack- 
eray, not  unknown  to  fame,  who  thought  La 
Longue  Carabine  perhaps  the  greatest  character 
ii8 


The   Diversions  of  a  Book-loDer 

in  fiction  and  "better  than  any  one  in  Scott's 
lot."  This  is  his  exact  language :  "  Perhaps 
Leather  -  Stocking  is  better  than  any  one  in 
Scott's  lot.  La  Longue  Carabine  is  one  of  the 
great  prize  men  of  fiction.  He  ranks  with  your 
Uncle  Toby,  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,  Falstaff — 
heroic  figures  all."^  The  views  of  the  poet  and 
of  the  novelist  may  be  regarded  as  at  least  as 
worthy  of  acceptance  as  those  of  Mr.  Clemens. 
At  all  events,  Clemens,  or  Twain,  has  scored 
Cooper  roundly,  and  has  demonstrated,  to  his 
own  satisfaction  at  least,  the  absurdity  of  the 
woodland  tales  and  the  impossibility  of  some  of 
the  feats  attributed  to  our  beloved  Natty  Bump- 
po.  He  gloats  over  some  little  flaws,  and  deluges 
us  with  diffuse  comments  upon  the  alleged  con- 
tradictions and  inconsistencies  which  he  finds  in 
The  Deerslayer.  He  seems  to  consider  it  amusing 
to  refer  to  Chingachgook  as  "Chicago,"  which 
is  certainly  not  excruciatingly  funny.  No  one 
could  laugh  very  much  at  it,  and  it  makes  one 
feel  sorry,  because  it  shows  America's  leading 
funny  man  when  he  is  not  at  his  best. 

He  exaggerates  the  importance  of  a  few  triv- 
ialities. For  example,  he  criticises  severely  the 
account  of  the  escape  of  Hutter  and  the  Ark 
as    related   in    chapter  iv.   of   The  Deerslayer, 

*  Roundabout  Papers,  On  a  Peal  of  Bells. 
119 


The  Diuersions  of  a   Book-looer 

but  his  fault-finding  is  built  up  chiefly  upon  a 
foundation  of  falsehood  —  to  wit,  a  misstate- 
ment as  to  the  dimensions  of  the  Ark.  Cooper 
described  it  as  "little  more  than  a  modern 
canal -boat,"  and  Mr.  Clemens  at  once  calls  it 
"one  hundred  and  forty  feet  long."  In  1841, 
when  The  Deer  slayer  was  published,  our  canal- 
boats  were  not  of  that  size;  the  length  of  the 
locks  in  the  Erie  Canal  was  only  ninety  feet. 
But  it  is  not  worth  while  to  treat  the  matter 
seriously;  any  one  but  a  professional  humorist 
would  know  that  Cooper  was  referring  to  the 
style  rather  than  to  the  dimensions  of  the  boat. 
Mr.  Clemens's  sneers  regarding  the  description 
of  the  river  are  just  as  unwarranted.  One  who 
has  visited  the  pretty  spot  where  the  Susque- 
hanna emerges  from  lovely  Otsego  Lake — a  spot 
as  familiar  to  Cooper  as  a  IMississippi  River 
steamboat's  pilot-house  is  to  Mark  Twain — will 
readily  understand  the  vivid  narrative  and  com- 
prehend the  futility  of  Mr.  Clemens's  verbose 
and  labored  denunciation.  It  brings  to  my 
mind  old  Dr.  Stephen  Alexander's  remark  to  us 
college  lads  when  we  were  particularly  offensive : 
"Young  gentlemen,  you  think  it  is  funny,  but  it 
isn't  funny."  Mr.  Twain  may  think  that  his 
Cooper  jocosity  is  funny,  but  it  is  not ;  and 
when  Mark  is  not  funny — well,  he  is  not  Mark 
Twain. 

120 


The  Dioersions  of  a  Book-looer 

Novels  are  to  be  read  at  odd  times,  not  as 
literature,  but  in  the  way  of  diversion.  There 
are  appropriate  hours  for  several  sorts  of  read- 
ing. As  Miss  Repplier  points  out  in  her  at- 
tractive way,  there  are  some  books  which 
should  be  sacred  to  the  bedroom,  and  she 
quotes  Thackeray's  dictum,  "  Montaigne  and 
HowelVs  Letters  are  my  bedside  books.  ...  I 
read  them  in  the  dozy  hours  and  only  half- 
remember  them."  Macaulay  said :  "  Some  books 
which  I  would  never  dream  of  opening  at  din- 
ner, please  me  at  breakfast,  and  vice  versa.''  I 
think  that  I  should  prefer  Montaigne  and  the 
Epistolce  Ho-eliance  at  some  more  wide-awake 
time.  Elia  at  bedtime,  Thackeray  in  the  after- 
noon, with  an  instalment  of  Dickens  in  the 
bright,  clear  morning,  and,  perhaps,  DeQuincey, 
Holmes,  or  Lowell  at  noon,  would  be  more  in 
accord  with  my  personal  feelings.  If  one  is  fond 
of  Balzac  or  of  Scott,  two  dissimilar  beings,  one 
might  wedge  them  in  somewhere.  I  do  not 
know  when  I  could  contrive  to  appropriate 
time  for  Henry  James  or  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward, 
but  they  might  be  reserved  for  a  season  of  in- 
somnia. That  wise  and  incisive  writer,  Walter 
Bagehot,  whose  works  have  been  given  to  us 
Americans  by  a  wonderfully  sagacious  and  en- 
terprising insurance  company  of  Hartford,  says 
that  people  take  their  literature  in  morsels,  as 

121 


The  Dioersions   of  a  Book-looer 

they  take  sandwiches  on  a  journey.  Some  may 
admire  Maria  Edgeworth,  who,  as  Madame  De 
Stael  said,  was  lost  in  dreary  utihty ;  or  one  may 
prefer  the  much- vaunted  productions  of  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson. 

It  may  be  rank  heresy  to  say  so,  but  we  are 
on  confidential  terms,  you  who  may  be  reading 
these  wise  outgivings  of  mine  and  I  who  am 
bestowing  upon  you  so  much  gratuitous  in- 
formation. The  Stevenson  worship  has  always 
puzzled  me  as  much  as  the  worship  of  the 
golden  calf.  I  do  not  understand  why  a  calf 
should  have  been  selected  as  an  object  of  rever- 
ence, and  I  have  had  the  secret  assurance  of 
many  rational  readers  who  confided  to  me  that 
they  also  were  puzzled  to  know  why  there  was 
so  much  ado  about  the  pecuHar  personage  who 
wrote  so  much  and  whose  praises  have  been 
sounded  so  persistently  in  two  continents. 
Stevenson  is  a  writer  of  distinction,  but  is  he  a 
marvel?  Has  his  fame  been  built  up  by  pufiing? 
Has  it  not  endured  by  reason  of  a  literary 
superstition?  We  cannot  disagree  with  Edmond 
Scherer  when  he  says:  "A  cult  once  establish- 
ed, a  dogma  once  accepted — no  more  freedom 
of  analysis,  no  more  independent  criticism,  no 
more  permissible  dissent;  the  order  is  '  to  admire 
Hke  a  beast.' "  It  is  thus  with  Goethe  in  Ger- 
man and  with  Moliere  in  French;  no  one  dares 

122 


The   Dioersions  of  a   Book-loucr 

to  dispute  their  authority.  There  is  a  disease 
of  admiration,  according  to  Macaulay.  I  refuse 
to  succumb  to  the  malady,  and  venture  to 
predict  that  the  popularity  of  Stevenson,  al- 
ready on  the  wane,  will  not  be  enduring.  It  is 
amusing  to  note  what  a  tumult  was  created  in 
the  literary  circles  of  England  by  the  late  Mr. 
Henley's  frank  and  outspoken  review  of  Bal- 
four's Lije  of  the  sage  of  Samoa.  That  Life  is 
a  stupendous  bore,  and  what  does  any  one  care 
for  a  portrait  of  "  Mrs.  Stevenson  at  the  age  of 
thirty,"  prefixed  to  volume  ii.?  Even  if  one 
may  admire  the  writings  of  an  author,  must  one 
be  compelled  to  admire  his  whole  family  ? 

I  do  not  care  to  have  anybody  suppose  that 
these  diversions  are  to  be  dignified  with  the 
title  of  criticism,  for  that  is  a  grave  and  im- 
portant affair.  To  criticise  is  to  assume  a 
function  which  implies  a  confident  opinion  of 
the  writer  respecting  his  own  cornpetency,  and, 
despite  my  apparent  self  -  satisfaction,  I  am 
conscious  of  the  fact  that,  in  the  words  of  an 
objecting  lawyer,  I  am  not  only  incompetent, 
but  frequently  irrelevant  and  persistently  im- 
material. This  is  not  grovelling  in  the  dust; 
I  know  that  my  judgment  about  books  is  as 
good  as  that  of  most  people  and  better  than 
that  of  many  people.  As  a  consumer  and  not 
a  producer  of  books,  I  think  that  I  know  almost 

123 


The  Dioersions  of  a  Book-looer 

as  much  of  their  merits  as  the  professional 
critics  who  write  for  the  newspapers  and  for  the 
magazines,  and  who  usually  mean  to  be  just  and 
fair,  although  they  often  fall  short  of  the  mark. 
I  do  not  agree  with  Disraeli  in  his  famous  and 
well-worn  saying  that  the  critics  are  the  men 
who  have  failed  in  literature  and  in  art.  That 
was  a  Beaconsfieldian  phrase,  pure  and  simple, 
although  it  was  borrowed  from  Coleridge,  who 
said:  "Reviewers  are  usually  people  who  would 
have  been  poets,  historians,  biographers,  if  they 
could ;  they  have  tried  their  talents  at  one  or  the 
other,  and  have  failed;  therefore,  they  turn 
critics."  The  statesman-novelist  condensed  all 
this  in  a  fashion  which  made  the  judgment 
immortal.  Shelley,  who  said  some  foolish  things, 
has  added  his  sting:  "  Reviewers,  with  some  rare 
exceptions,  are  a  most  stupid  and  malignant  race. 
As  a  bankrupt  thief  turns  thief-taker  in  de- 
spair, so  an  unsuccessful  author  turns  critic." 

Such  observations  deserve  little  respect.  Many 
men  who  are  incapable  of  original  production 
are  qualified  to  judge  of  the  work  of  others. 
If  I  cannot  write  trilogies,  I  may  tell  what  I 
think  of  the  music  of  Richard  Wagner.  I  may 
not  be  able  to  paint  like  Sargent,  but  I  am 
capable  of  denouncing,  as  I  do  here  and  now, 
his  atrocious  portrait  of  the  eminent  lawyer  and 
ambassador  Joseph  H.  Choate  as  the  represen- 

124 


The  Dioersions  of  a  Book-loocr 

tation  of  a  silly  old  man,  and  Mr.  Choate  was 
not  and  never  will  be  either  old  or  silly.  It  is 
strange  that  such  an  artist  should  fail  so  utterly 
in  the  portrait  of  a  remarkably  handsome  man, 
while  he  succeeds  admirably  in  a  portrait  of 
James  C.  Carter,  who  has  a  strong  but  not  a 
pretty  countenance. 

Lessing  says  that  criticism  is  like  a  crutch;  it 
helps  the  cripple  move  from  place  to  place,  but 
can  never  make  a  racer  of  him.  Sir  Henry 
Wotton  said  that  critics  are  like  brushers  of 
noblemen's  clothes.  I  do  not  care  to  help  crip- 
ples or  to  brush  clothes,  as  regular  occupa- 
tions, and  yet  I  assert  my  right  to  announce 
my  own  opinions  regarding  all  sorts  and  con- 
ditions of  books.  "  My  glass  is  not  large,"  said 
Alfred  de  Musset,  "but  I  drink  from  my  own 
glass." 

This  somehow  recalls  Locker-Lampson's  can- 
did confession:  "There  is  nothing  more  agree- 
able than  talking  about  one's  self;  of  all  luxuries 
it  is  the  most  enticing  and  the  cheapest." 
Willis  said  to  George  William  Curtis  that  people 
always  read  eagerly  two  things — stories  of  them- 
selves and  of  other  people.  This  is  only  another 
manifestation  of  that  quality  of  human  nature 
which  causes  men  to  read  aloud  to  others  their 
own  productions;  men  like  Southey,  who  en- 
ticed Shelley  into  the  library,  and,  after  locking 

125 


The  Dioersions   of  a  Book-looer 

the  door,  read  verses  to  him  until  the  listener  fell 
asleep  under  the  table ;  men  like  Tennyson,  who 
must  have  been  a  great  bore,  and  never  knew 
when  to  stop.  But  I  have  forgiven  Tennyson, 
because  he  once  read  aloud  to  Charles  Sumner 
the  whole  of  The  Princess  at  one  sitting,  and 
Sumner,  who  was  something  of  a  bore  himself, 
never  dared  to  pay  him  another  visit. 


VII 

Of  old  magazines,  and  some  thoughts  concerning  the 
"Star-Spangled  Banner"  and  the  omniscience  of 
writers. 

THERE  is  much  in  the  ordinary  review 
which  causes  weariness  to  the  spirit.  We 
are  often  reminded  of  Lockhart's  remark  that 
when  the  reviewer  sits  down  to  criticise,  his 
first  question  is  not  "is  the  book  good  or  bad?" 
but  "is  the  writer  a  ministerialist  or  an  op- 
positionist?" It  is  doubtful  whether  there  is 
any  profit  in  the  "slatings"  which  our  English 
cousins  are  so  fond  of  inflicting  upon  the  luck- 
less author  who  happens  to  disagree  with  their 
accepted  notions.  The  writer  who  begins  with 
preconceived  hostility  to  the  reviewed  or  to  the 
subject  is  seldom  capable  of  expressing  sound 
judgments.  It  always  seemed  to  me  that  it  was 
injudicious  on  the  part  of  the  editors  of  that 
valuable  series  of  books,  American  Statesmen,  to 
select  Professor  Sumner,  accomplished  and  learn- 
ed as  he  is,  to  be  the  biographer  of  Andrew 
Jackson,  and  Henry  Adams  to  treat  of  John 

127 


The  Dioersions  of  a  Book-looer 

Randolph.  One  might  as  well  choose  Sir  Henry 
Campbell-Bannerman  to  write  the  life  of  Joseph 
Chamberlain,  or  General  Miles  to  sketch  the  ca- 
reer of  Theodore  Roosevelt.  These  accounts  of 
men  are  quasi-reviews,  and  the  work  must  nec- 
essarily be  colored  by  the  personal  preposses- 
sions of  the  writers.  The  only  justification  for 
having  them  done  by  unsympathetic  persons  is 
that  the  world  enjoys  severe  criticism.  Jean 
Paul  Richter  expressed  the  truth  when  he  said 
that  the  public  is  fond  of  reading  reviews,  be- 
cause it  likes  to  see  authors,  and,  I  may  add, 
famous  men,  as  the  English  used  to  like  to  see 
bears,  not  only  made  to  dance,  but  also  goaded 
and  baited. 

You  may  buy  a  good  three-page  autograph 
letter  of  Keats  for  ;^37  105.,  and  in  the  light  of 
these  financial  statistics  it  is  gratifying  to  re- 
member the  fact,  so  familiar  to  everybody,  that 
almost  "  within  the  memory  of  men  now  living," 
to  borrow  a  Macaulayism,  he  was  despised  and 
rejected  of  reviewers.  While  all  men  recollect 
that  circumstance,  but  few  ever  take  from  the 
shelf  the  Quarterly  for  April,  1818,^  to  glance  at 
the  bitter  critique  of  "  Endymion,"  written  by 
John  Wilson  Croker  and  containing  such  gems 
as  these:   "There  is  hardly  a  complete  couplet 

*  It  was  the  April  number,  but  not  published  until  Sep- 
tember. 

128 


The  Dioersions  oft  a   Book-loocr 

enclosing  a  complete  idea  in  the  whole  book." 
"  This  nonsense  is  quite  gratuitous."  "  He  writes 
it  for  its  own  sake,  and  being  bitten  by  Mr. 
Leigh  Hunt's  insane  criticism,  more  than  rivals 
the  insanity  of  his  poetry."  These  jewels  of 
literary  perspicacity  may  well  console  the  be- 
ginner writhing  under  the  lash  of  contemptu- 
ous criticism.  John  Wilson  Croker's  autograph 
letters  are  dear  at  three  dollars.*  I  always  read 
the  Saturday  Review  of  the  New  York  Times, 
and  I  could  scarcely  bring  myself  to  a  proper 
Sabbatical  frame  of  mind  if  I  were  deprived  of 
it  for  any  considerable  period.  I  was  gratified 
not  long  ago  to  observe  on  its  editorial  page 
these  innocent  remarks  of  mine  about  Keats  and 
Croker  figuring  as  a  text  for  a  pleasant  little 
essay  concerning  reviewers  and  the  reviewed. 
The  writer  of  this  essay  intimated  a  doubt 
whether  the  comparative  merits  of  the  two 
authors  should  be  tested  by  the  value  of  their 
respective  autographs  long  after  their  decease. 
On  reflection  I  admit  that  his  doubt  is  justified ; 
but  I  cannot  agree  with  him  in  his  defence  of 
that  slashing  article.  As  Sir  Theodore  Martin 
said,  it  is  "  an  instructive  specimen  of  the  worst 


'  There  is  no  proof  that  Croker  wrote  the  Blackwood  ar- 
ticle (August,  1818),  but  he  was  the  author  of  the  article  in 
the  Quarterly  Review.  (Memoir  of  John  Murray,  vol.  i., 
481.) 

9  129 


The  Dioersions  of  a  Book-looer 

style  of  so-called  criticism  which  starts  with 
the  assumption  that  because  the  writer  does 
not  like  the  work  it  is  therefore  bad."  Really 
politics  were  at  the  bottom  of  the  business,  and 
those  who  try  to  mix  politics  and  poetry  are 
apt  to  involve  themselves  in  serious  difficul- 
ties. 

Perhaps  Croker  would  have  smiled  at  the  old 
story  of  the  Oxford  undergraduate  who  was  told 
by  a  fellow-student  that  he  was  engaged  upon 
an  essay  on  Keats,  and  who  is  said  to  have 
remarked:  "Oh,  are  you,  old  man?  But  what 
are  Keats?" 

The  old  English  reviews  are  rather  too  pon- 
derous and  long-winded  for  the  reader  of  to- 
day, and  I  know  of  no  more  somnolent  occupa- 
tion than  the  perusal  of  the  interminable  pages 
of  the  ancient  volumes  of  the  Quarterly  and  of 
the  Edinburgh,  the  latter  having  just  closed  the 
first  century  of  its  existence,  for  it  was  es- 
tablished in  October,  1802.  The  only  American 
compeer  of  those  venerable  periodicals,  the 
North  American,  has  passed  through  many 
changes,  from  the  dull  and  solemn  to  the  dull 
and  sensational,  and  in  these  later  days  it  has 
become  frankly  contemporaneous,  serious  with- . 
out  being  stupid.  Harvey  having  discovered 
the  secret  of  circulation  and  done  for  the  Review 
what  his  namesake  did  for  the  blood,  the  North 

130 


The  Dioersions   of  a  Book-Iouer 

American  has  ceased  to  be  the  sepulchre  of  the 
sedate,  stilted,  and  formal  essays  of  Bostonian 
pundits.  Its  wise  managers  recognize  the  truth 
that  monthly  magazines  are  intended  to  produce 
revenue,  and  that  few  citizens  of  this  republic  care 
to  occupy  themselves  with  elaborate  and  prosy 
dissertations  concerning  literature  or  politics. 
There  was,  however,  a  time,  about  the  middle  of 
the  last  century,  when  Americans  endeavored 
to  copy  English  styles,  and  supported,  after  a 
fashion,  not  only  the  North  American,  but  others 
of  a  semi -political,  semi -literary  character  in- 
tended to  correspond  with  the  Edinburgh  and 
the  Quarterly.  Like  most  imitations,  they  were 
feeble  and  inane,  although  occasionally  they 
contained  some  articles  worthy  of  permanent 
fame. 

I  am  looking  over  the  rather  antiquated  pages 
of  the  magazine  in  which  "The  Raven"  origi- 
nally appeared,  the  veritable  first  edition  of  that 
strangely  interesting  poem,  the  authorship  where- 
of   is    attributed    to    " Quarles."     The 

preface  is  curious,  and  it  reads  partly  thus: 
"The  following  lines  from  a  correspondent — 
besides  the  deep,  quaint  strain  of  the  sentiment, 
and  the  curious  introduction  of  some  ludicrous 
touches  amid  the  serious  and  impressive,  as  was 
doubtless  intended  by  the  author  —  appear  to 
us  as  one  of  the  most  felicitous  specimens  of 

131 


The   Dioersions   of  a  Book-looer 

unique  rhyming  which  has  for  some  time  met 
our  eye."  I  am  told  by  precise  persons  that 
the  poem  was  printed  in  the  New  York  Mirror 
a  few  days  before  it  appeared  in  the  magazine; 
but  it  was  copied  from  advance  sheets  of  the 
February  number  by  permission  of  the  editors 
of  the  Review,^  and  a  newspaper  publication  of 
that  character  is  hardly  worth  considering  as  a 
first  edition.  Moreover,  the  advance  sheets  were 
printed  first. 

The  magazine  thus  distinguished  is  called 
The  American  Review  :  a  Whig  Journal  of  Poli- 
tics, Literature,  Art,  and  Science,  and  "The 
Raven"  is  in  the  second  number  of  volume  i., 
published  in  February,  1845.  The  number  con- 
sists of  one  hundred  and  seventeen  double- 
columned  pages,  printed  in  small,  close  -  set 
type,  by  the  old  house  of  Wiley  &  Putnam. 
We  cannot  help  being  sorry  for  our  ancestors 
who  were  obliged  to  read  such  stately  common- 
places as  those  which  fill  this  somewhat  melan- 
choly volume.  There  is  a  dreary  lamentation 
over  "the  result  of  the  election"  of  1844,  for 
the  Review  was  sturdily  Whig,  begun  in  op- 
position to  O' Sullivan's  equally  melancholy 
Democratic  Review,  valuable  to-day  mainly  for 
its  interesting  portraits.     The  American  Review 

'  Donald  G.  Mitchell,  American  Lands  and  Letters,  vol.  ii., 
387. 

132 


The  Dioersions   of  a  Book-locer 

mourns  over  the  defeat  of  Henry  Clay,  with  "  se- 
rious alarm  for  the  national  welfare";  charges 
gross  misconduct  on  the  part  of  the  opposition, 
and  alleges  that  the  successful  candidate  was 
elected  by  "downright  and  violent  frauds  of 
illegal,  false,  and  spurious  votes."  It  closes 
with  the  grandiloquent  announcement  that 
"the  altar  on  which  the  fire  of  our  enthusiasm 
is  kindled  is  the  altar  of  Principle  —  its  flames 
are  fed  with  the  pure  oil  of  Patriotism."  The 
writer  is  manifestly  proud  of  his  capital  P's 
and  the  pomposity  of  his  phrases.  We  have 
grown  so  familiar  with  the  destruction  of  our 
"national  prosperity"  every  four  years  that  we 
have  learned  not  to  take  too  seriously  the 
laments  of  professional  politicians  who  weep 
over  the  lost  offices.  Then  there  is  an  enliven- 
ing essay  on  "  Patent  Property,"  followed  by  a 
ponderous  treatise  on  "  Literary  Prospects  of 
1845,"  which  seemed  to  have  been  very  dismal, 
according  to  Mr.  Duyckinck,  although  he  extols 
Bryant,  Dana,  and  Brainard  as  the  American 
poets  of  distinction.  Brainard !  I  fear  that  I  re- 
member nothing  about  him,  but  I  am  consoled 
by  the  thought  that  nobody  except  the  compiler 
of  the  Biographical  Dictionary  recollects  him 
any  better  than  I  do.  He  may  have  been  a 
poetical  giant,  but  I  challenge  any  one  to  tell 
me  his  first  name  without  previous  searching  of 

133 


The  Diversions   of  a  Book-looer 

the  cyclopaedia.^  There  is  also  a  caustic  review 
of  Alison's  History  of  Europe,  breaking  forth 
properly  in  italics  when  it  reproves  the  his- 
torian for  some  rather  harmless  remarks  about 
Americans.  It  was  a  day  of  sensitive,  con- 
ceited patriotism,  but  it  was  not  worth  while 
to  become  excited  about  Alison,  whose  dulness 
is  greater  than  that  of  a  warm  June  afternoon 
in  a  country-house.  We  have  a  wordy  disqui- 
sition on  "Words"  by  E.  P.  Whipple,  a  writer 
who  never  rose  very  far  above  the  level  of  medi- 
ocrity; a  screed  on  that  burning  topic,  "Post- 
office  Reform,"  and  a  few  other  things  of  a  kin- 
dred nature,  all  saturated  with  tediousness. 
Then,  only  a  little  more  than  fifty  years  ago,  we 
were  striving  to  be  like  our  over  -  sea  relatives, 
afraid  to  walk  in  other  paths  than  those  which 
they  marked  out,  and  suppressing  all  original- 
ity, except  in  a  few  instances  like  that  of  "  The 
Raven,"  which  flashes  across  the  sombre  sheets 
and  lights  up  the  tiresome  stretches  of  elabo- 
rate posing  and  absurd  affectation.  I  wonder 
whether  in  the  twenty -first  century  the  count- 

*  Mr.  Oscar  Wegelin,  in  a  courteous  letter  to  the  Literary 
Collector,  takes  me  to  task  for  this  assertion.  He  gives  the 
name,  "John  Gardiner  Calkins  Brainard,"  but  even  he  does 
not  seem  to  be  entirely  sure  of  it.  Donald  Mitchell  calls  the 
poet  "that  tender  versifier."  Whittier  wrote  the  introduc- 
tion to  his  Literary  Remains,  in  1832.  A  mortuary  title! 
Mr.  Wegelin's  Early  American  Fiction  is  a  valuable  essay  in 
bibliography. 


The  Diocrsions   of  a  Book-loocr 

less  volumes  of  Harper's,  the  Century,  the  Atlan- 
tic, and  Scribner's  will  seem  so  flat  and  unprofit- 
able? Surely  not,  for  they  are  the  ultimate  de- 
velopment of  what  Dr.  Guyot  used  to  call  the 
"primordial  types."  They  are  far  and  away 
the  superiors  of  the  English  monthlies,  which 
seem  to  run  to  the  merest  drivel,  maunderings 
about  trivial  matters,  descriptions  of  noble- 
men's houses,  interviews  with  nobodies,  ac- 
counts of  freaks,  and  the  inevitable  story  of  the 
girl  who  is  locked  in  a  railway  carriage  with  an 
impossible  lunatic,  and  is  rescued  by  a  hand- 
some young  man  who  knows  her  cousins  in 
Ipswich.  If  it  were  not  for  that  blessed  com- 
partment in  a  railway  coach  I  verily  believe 
that  the  English  short  story  would  disappear 
wholly  from  the  face  of  the  earth. 

However  feeble  we  may  have  been  in  the 
matter  of  magazines  in  those  old  days,  we  were 
undeniably  patriotic.  We  were  sublimely  con- 
scious of  ourselves  and  of  our  superiority  over 
all  creation.  They  were  the  times  when  Basil 
Hall,  Mrs.  Trollope,  and  Charles  Dickens  re- 
corded their  impressions  of  us,  and  they  spared 
us  not.  They  were  middle-class  English  people 
(Hall,  perhaps,  was  a  shade  above  the  middle 
class),  thoroughly  imbued  with  an  insular  pride 
and  self  -  satisfaction,  which  came  into  direct 
conflict  with  our  own  continental  conceit.     We 


The  Diversions  of  a  Book-looer 

were  a  bit  raw,  somewhat  crude,  exhibiting  the 
pecuHarities  of  a  people  hampered  by  the  bur- 
dens which  attend  the  beginner,  and  striving  to 
force  our  way  onward  and  upward.  The  proc- 
ess of  striving  is  always  unpleasant  to  the 
lookers-on  who  have  finished  their  struggles  and 
are  at  peace.  They  do  not  thoroughly  com- 
prehend it,  and,  unless  they  are  built  on  broader 
lines  than  most  men,  they  are  amazed  and  dis- 
gusted and  they  cry  aloud.  The  English  writers 
were  no  more  disgusted  with  us  than  we  were 
with  them,  and  the  storm  of  rage  which  greeted 
the  books  as  they  successively  appeared  was  so 
furious  that  it  savors  of  the  ridiculous. 

With  all  this  patriotism,  it  is  strange  that  the 
United  States  of  America  have  never  been  able 
to  produce  a  true  and  effective  national  hymn 
— some  people  would  say  "The  United  States 
has"  but  the  Constitution  is  with  me  on  this 
point,  and  as  a  loyal  citizen  I  stand  by  the 
Constitution.  Much  has  been  written  on  the 
subject,  and  it  is  not  worth  while  to  seek  for 
the  reasons.  I  am  led  to  refer  to  it  by  looking 
at  a  copy  of  the  Analectic  Magazine  for  No- 
vember, 1814,  containing  a  poem  called  "De- 
fence of  Fort  McHenry."  This  periodical  was 
published  in  Philadelphia,  founded  in  1809, 
and  was  originally  called  Select  Reviews  and 
Spirit  of  the  Foreign  Magazines.     The  name  was 

136 


The  Diocrsions  o^  a  Book-looer 

changed  in  1812  for  obvious  reasons;  no  train- 
boy  could  remember  it.  Washington  Irving  was 
the  editor  in  18 13-14.  All  these  facts  you 
may  find  for  yourselves  in  McMaster's  enter- 
taining History  of  the  People  of  the  United  States, 
which  I  hope  will  be  completed  in  my  lifetime, 
I  began  the  first  volume  when  I  was  com- 
paratively young,  and  now  that  I  am  wearing 
the  white  badge  of  senectitude,  I  am  only  at 
volume  v.,  which  brings  us  to  Andrew  Jackson 
and  1830. 

I  came  very  near  forgetting  about  the  "  De- 
fence of  Fort  McHenry."  Of  course  it  is  what 
we  know  as  "The  Star  -  Spangled  Banner." 
There  is  an  introduction  beginning:  "These  lines 
have  already  been  published  in  several  of  our 
newspapers.  They  may  still,  however,  be  new 
to  many  of  our  readers.  Besides,  we  think  that 
their  merit  entitles  them  to  preservation  in  some 
more  permanent  form  than  the  columns  of  a 
daily  paper."  We  then  read  the  old  story  of  the 
circumstances  under  which  the  poem  was  written, 
and  we  are  informed  that  the  tune  is  "  Anacreon 
in  Heaven." 

If  Francis  Scott  Key  could  have  had  a  pre- 
monition of  the  fact  that  his  words  would 
eventually  be  used  by  many  millions  of  people 
of  limited  vocal  capacity  as  their  nearest  ap- 
proach to  a  national  anthem   he  would  surely 

137 


The  Dioersions  of  a  Book-looer 

have  paused  before  selecting  such  a  tune  as 
that  which,  at  the  outset,  he  imposed  on  the 
record  of  his  commendable  emotions.  It  is  not 
easy  singing,  as  most  of  us  can  testify.  It  re- 
quires a  compass  of  voice  and  a  degree  of 
musical  skill  which  few  possess.  If  you  begin 
it  in  a  high  key  (no  pun  is  intended),  you  in- 
variably "squawk"  on  the  upper  notes;  if  you 
commence  it  in  a  low  key,  you  are  sure — unlike 
Topper  in  the  Christmas  Carol — to  swell  the 
large  veins  in  your  forehead  and  get  red  in  the 
face  over  it.  Even  then  you  have  to  scream 
out  that  very  questionable  proposition,  "Then 
conquer  we  must,  for  our  cause  it  is  just."  I 
have  heard  that  wood -lark  Parepa-Rosa  try 
it,  and  I  was  mournful;  and  I  have  also  heard 
a  worthy  and  dignified  gentleman  deliver  it  as 
a  solo,  after  dinner,  without  experiencing  any 
sensation  of  musical  rapture.  At  one  time  the 
theatre  orchestras  played  it  as  the  audience  was 
retiring,  doubtless  with  the  purpose  of  acceler- 
ating the  departure,  but  the  tune  remains  as 
awful  and  as  discouraging  as  ever. 

I  think  that  when  Key  was  lying  there,  under 
the  guns  of  the  British  frigate,  chafing  at  his 
detention  by  "the  foe's  haughty  host,"  gazing 
at  the  flag  on  the  fort  all  day  long  and  finding  it 
still  floating  at  dawn,  the  air  of  "  Anacreon  "  was 
running  through  his  head,  as  tunes  will  beset  us 
138 


The  Diuersions  of  a  Book-looer 

now  and  then.  He  may  have  sung  it  at  some 
jollification  a  night  or  two  before,  when  the 
Maryland  canvas -back  and  terrapin  and  the 
Maryland  Club  whiskey  were  much  in  evidence, 
for  the  melody  is  redolent  of  Bacchus  and  good 
living.  The  verses  to  which  it  originally  be- 
longed are  a  proof  of  its  character.  I  quote  the 
first  stanza  from  page  53  of  the  Musical  Olio: 


To  Anacreon  in  heav'n,  where  he  sat  in  full  glee, 

A  few  sons  of  harmony  sent  a  petition, 
That  he  their  inspirer  and  patron  would  be, 

When  their  answer  arrived  from  the  jolly  old  Grecian: 
"Voice,  fiddle,  and  flute. 
No  longer  be  mute. 
I'll  lend  you  my  name,  and  inspire  you  to  boot. 
And  besides  I'll  instruct  you,  like  me,  to  entwine 
The  myrtle  of  Venus  with  Bacchus 's  vine. 

"And  besides  I'll  instruct  you,"  etc. 


If  it  were  not  undignified,  I  should  say  that 
these  clumsy,  awkward  lines  "inspire  me  to 
boot"  the  heavy-witted  author.  Could  there 
be  anything  more  stupidly  puerile?  Yet  it  is 
written  in  the  book  of  fate  that  enthusiastic 
Americans  must  go  on  forever  entwining  the 
myrtle  of  Venus  with  Bacchus's  vine  and  the 
land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave! 
Imagine  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Rutherford  B.  Hayes 
joining  in  such  a  chorus! 

139 


The  Diuersions  of  a   Book-locer 

It  is  recorded  that  when  the  unfortunate 
WilHam  Collins,  the  man  who  wrote,  "When 
Music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young,"  dear  to 
all  the  declaimers  of  my  boyhood,  was  taken 
by  his  sister  to  Chichester,  "he  who  had  loved 
music  so  passionately  hated  the  cathedral  organ 
in  his  madness,  and  when  he  heard  it  howled  in 
his  distress."  I  do  not  know  what  he  would 
have  done  if  he  had  heard  "The  Star-Spangled 
Banner"  sung  in  Tammany  Hall  on  the  Fourth 
of  July. 

While  we  are  on  the  subject  of  music,  it  is 
at  this  day  amusing  to  read  what  Prosper 
Merimee  said  in  his  Lettres  a  tine  Inconnue  about 
the  stupendous  Wagner.  "The  latest,  but  a 
colossal  bore,  has  been  'Tannhauser.'  .  .  .  The 
fact  is,  it  is  prodigious,  I  am  convinced  that  I 
could  write  something  similar  if  inspired  by  the 
scampering  of  my  cat  over  the  piano  keys." 

When  I  begin  to  reflect  about  the  shortness 
of  time  and  the  length  of  eternity,  I  wonder 
what  it  is  about  books  which  makes  us  so  fond 
of  them,  which  impels  us  to  study  them,  write 
about  them,  and  regard  them  as  things  of 
transcendent  importance,  when  after  a  few 
years  we  must  leave  them  behind  us.  Then  I 
remember  the  epitaph  on  the  grave  of  Henry 
Thomas  Buckle,  taken  from  the  Arabic : 
140 


The  Diocrsions   of  a   Book-looer 

The  written  word  remains  long  after  the  writer. 
The  writer  is  resting  under  the  earth,  but  his  works 
endvire. 

Buckle's  work  endures  in  only  a  limited 
sense.  He  was  a  book-lover,  and  we  are  told 
that  he  had  during  his  rather  brief  life  twenty- 
two  thousand  volumes,  but  he  had  the  courage, 
which  so  few  of  us  possess,  to  part  with  them 
when  he  no  longer  required  them.  When  he 
died  at  forty  his  library  contained  only  eleven 
thousand.  Justin  McCarthy  says  that  the  un- 
finished History  of  Civilization  is  a  monument 
of  courage,  energy,  and  labor,  but  that  it  might 
not  inaptly  be  described  as  a  ruin.  Despite  the 
epitaph,  it  is  the  name  of  Buckle  which  remains, 
while  his  books  have  passed  into  comparative 
oblivion. 

It  is  something  to  have  written  a  book,  even 
if  it  is  not  a  very  good  one.  Some  day  some- 
body may  read  it,  and  that  is  a  consoling  thought, 
although  even  that  consolation  may  fail  us  if 
Mr.  William  Loring  Andrews  is  right  in  his 
melancholy  prophecy  that  because  of  the  perish- 
able paper  now  in  use  the  books  of  the  present 
are  destined  after  a  while  to  dissolve  in  dust. 
"Every  man  who  has  written  a  book,"  says 
Frederic  Harrison,  "even  the  diligent  Mr. 
Whitaker,  is  in  one  sense  an  author — *  a  book's 
a  book,  although  there's  nothing  in  't' — and 
141 


The  Dioersions   of  a  Book-looer 

every  man  who  can  decipher  a  penny  journal 
is  in  one  sense  a  reader." 

It  is  an  easy  thing,  with  a  little  practice,  to 
enunciate  opinions  which  have  the  appearance 
of  profundity.  Carlyle  illustrates  it  when  he 
remarks  in  his  Note-Book:  "It  is  really  curious 
to  think  how  little  knoivledge  there  is  actually 
contained  in  these  unaccountable  mountains  of 
books  that  men  have  written."  He  seems  to 
forget  that  his  own  standard  of  what  knowledge 
is  may  not  be  the  true  one.  His  oracular 
declaration  is  suggestive  of  the  well-known 
verse  about  Jowett,  of  Balliol,  which  runs  after 
this  fashion,  although  I  plead  ignorance  of  the 
precise  phraseology: 

I  am  the  great  Professor  Jowett. 
Whatever  there  is  known,  I  know  it. 
I  am  the  head  of  Balliol  College. 
What  I  don't  know  isn't  knowledge. 

Carlyle's  calm  assumption  that  he,  of  all  men 
in  the  world,  is  solely  capable  of  deciding  what 
true  knowledge  is,  marks  the  colossal  egotism 
of  his  character;  but  he  merely  set  it  down  in 
his  Note-Book,  and  a  man  may,  I  suppose,  be 
as  vain  as  he  pleases  in  his  own  private  memo- 
randa. Like  Buckle,  the  Sage  of  Chelsea  had  "a 
power  of  self-will  and  self-complacency  which 

142 


The  Dioersions   of  a  Book-loocr 

enabled  him  to  accept  as  certain  and  settled 
every  dogma  on  which  he  had  personally  made 
up  his  mind."  I  am  not  surprised  that  Margaret 
Ogilvy  (the  mother  of  Barrie),  an  admirer  of 
Carlyle,  said  that  she  would  rather  have  been 
his  mother  than  his  wife.  Tennyson  remarked, 
with  much  good  sense,  that  "  it  was  well  that  the 
Carlyles  married  each  other,  for,  had  they  mar- 
ried differently,  there  would  have  been  four  un- 
happy persons  instead  of  two." 

Comte  went  even  beyond  Carlyle  when  he 
selected  one  hundred  books  to  constitute  the 
library  of  every  Positivist,  recommending  the 
destruction  of  all  other  books.  We  do  not 
wonder  that  it  was  said  of  this  self-satisfied 
French  gentleman  that  "  his  absolute  faith  in 
himself  passes  belief."  The  trait  is  not  un- 
common with  his  countrymen.  Perhaps  that 
is  why  they  have,  every  now  and  then,  a  rev- 
olution— the  one  real  luxury  of  the  Frenchman, 
according  to  L'Abbe  Constantin. 


VIII 

Of  truthful  books;  and  also  of  humor,  American  and 
otherwise. 

BOOKS  which  bear  upon  their  face  the  im- 
press of  absolute  truth  have  an  indescrib- 
able charm.  Books  are  generally  truth- tellers, 
but  some  are  more  palpably  veracious  than 
others.  "It  was  truly  said:  optimi  consilarii 
mortui;  books  will  speak  plain  when  counsellors 
blanch.  Therefore  it  is  good  to  be  conversant  in 
them;  specially  the  books  of  such  as  them- 
selves have  been  actors  upon  the  stage.  "^  To 
be  sure,  Bums  said  that  "  some  are  lies  frae  end 
to  end,"  but  they  are  not  of  the  sort  which 
endures.  A  friend  was  enthusiastic  recently 
about  a  pleasant  volume  called  The  End  of  an 
Era,  by  the  eloquent  and  accomplished  John 
Sergeant  Wise,  who  is  the  delight  of  our  dinner- 
tables,  and  who  has  not  suffered  his  literary 
labors  to  interfere  with  his  notable  efficiency 
as  a  lawyer.     He  was  certainly  an  "  actor  upon 

*  Bacon,  Of  Counsel. 
144 


The  Dioersions  of  a  Book-looer 

the  stage."  The  book  is  a  graphic  account 
of  the  author's  personal  experience  of  the  days 
of  the  war  between  the  North  and  the  South 
and  of  the  time  which  immediately  preceded 
that  memorable  conflict.  The  son  of  Vir- 
ginia's famous  fire -eating  governor,  Henry 
Alexander  Wise,  had  opportunities  of  observa- 
tion which  were  not  vouchsafed  to  many,  and 
those  of  us  who  have  an  interest  in  that  period 
of  our  history  can  do  nothing  more  agreeable 
than  to  read  this  fascinating  chronicle,  which 
is  an  admirable  example  of  the  art  of  true 
narrative.  Charles  Francis  Adams,  in  Lee  at 
Appomattox,  and  Other  Papers,  testifies  to  the 
value  of  this  book  as  "reliable  historical  ma- 
terial," and  quotes  from  it  with  evident  ap- 
preciation of  its  merits.  I  wish  that  he  had  not 
called  the  author  "John  Sargent  Wise,"  because 
it  indicates  a  forgetfulness  of  the  famous  Whig 
statesman  of  Philadelphia,  the  eminent  lawyer 
John  Sergeant.  "  You  can  generally  distinguish 
between  the  real  story  and  the  invented,"  Wise 
said  to  me  not  long  ago,  and  he  is  right,  although 
it  is  not  easy  to  explain  the  reason  of  it.  One 
can  tell  about  it,  but  cannot  tell  how  to  do  it. 
A  man  sees  color  or  he  does  not;  if  he  does 
not,  he  is  color  blind,  and  no  demonstration  or 
argument  can  make  it  plain  to  him.  There  are 
other  things  which  may  be  gained  by  intuition. 

145 


The  Dioersions   of  a  Book-looer 

I  always  had  a  feeling  of  dissatisfaction  with  the 
pretentious  humor,  if  it  may  be  called  humor,  of 
Haliburton,  otherwise  known  to  preceding  gen- 
erations of  readers  as  "Sam  Slick."  He  never 
appeared  to  me  to  be  genuine,  possibly  because 
he  was  Nova-Scotian  and  not  truly  Yankee. 
He  savors  of  the  humbug,  and  he  is  by  no 
means  spontaneous.  It  delighted  me  to  dis- 
cover that  there  was  a  judicious  critic  whose 
opinion  is  substantially  the  same,  for  Professor 
Felton  says:  "We  can  distinguish  the  real 
from  the  counterfeit  Yankee  at  the  first  sound 
of  the  voice  and  by  the  turn  of  a  single  sen- 
tence; and  we  have  no  hesitation  in  declaring 
that  Sam  Slick  is  not  what  he  pretends  to  be; 
that  there  is  no  organic  life  in  him ;  that  he  is  an 
impostor,  an  impossibility,  a  nonentity." 

If  anybody  cares  to  encounter  a  real  Yankee, 
although  we  may  not  understand  why  he  should 
desire  such  an  experience,  he  will  be  likely  to 
find  him  in  the  Biglow  Papers,  the  books  of 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  and  even  in  the  pages 
of  Artemus  Ward,  who  was  transplanted  from 
Maine  to  Ohio,  but  who  kept  the  New  England 
essence  to  the  last.  He  will  not  find  him  in  the 
works  of  Major  Jack  Downing,  who  is  hardly 
more  convincing  than  Sam  Slick,  and  who  was 
a  pseudo-humorist  of  the  callow  age  of  American 
literature. 

146 


The  Dioersions   o^  a  Book-looer 

There  are  sundry  illusions,  cherished  for  gen- 
erations, regarding  certain  nations  and  races. 
The  roast-beef  of  old  England  may  long  ago 
have  been  worthy  of  glorification  in  song  and 
story,  but  in  modern  times  it  is  usually  trans- 
ported from  Chicago  across  the  ocean,  and  it  is 
by  no  means  as  good  as  English  mutton.  The 
politeness  of  the  Frenchman  is  a  delusive 
shadow  of  a  vanished  past,  as  one  who  has  been 
rudely  thrust  into  a  Parisian  gutter  by  a  swag- 
gering officer  in  a  soiled  uniform  is  ready  to 
testify,  and  as  the  unhappy  person  who  braves 
the  perils  of  the  lumbering  Parisian  omnibus 
knows  to  his  sorrow.  The  Swedes  seem  to  have 
taken  to  themselves  the  famous  French  courtesy 
when  they  borrowed  Bemadotte  in  order  to 
place  the  marshal  of  Napoleon  upon  the  throne 
of  Gustavus  Adolphus.  The  corpulent  German, 
with  his  huge  pipe,  his  towering  stein  of  beer, 
and  his  elongated  dachshund,!  have  encountered 
more  frequently  in  the  many-colored  pages  of 
Puck  and  Judge  than  in  the  domains  of  the 
War-Lord.  Is  the  celebrated  American  humor 
another  departed  dream? 

It  will,  of  course,  be  considered  a  presumptu- 
ous thing  to  ask  whether  we  Americans  may 
justly  be  called  a  humorous  people.  We  hear 
and  read  a  great  deal  of  American  humor,  and 
are  inclined  to  brag  a  little  about  it,  and  to  set 

147 


The  Diuersions   of  a  Book-looer 

ourselves  up  as  the  only  possessors  of  the  genuine 
article.  John  Phoenix,  Artemus  Ward,  Leland, 
Irving,  Lowell,  Holmes,  and  a  few  others  are 
constantly  cited  to  us,  as  well  as  Mark  Twain 
(who  is  cosmopolitan)  and  Dooley  (who  is 
Irish).  There  is  room,  however,  for  doubt 
whether  there  is  a  dominant  note  of  humor  in 
us,  or,  at  all  events,  in  us  of  modern  days.  I  in- 
tend to  disarm  my  critic  by  drawing  a  line  be- 
tween the  citizen  of  the  United  States  of  this 
decade  and  his  fellow-citizen  of  forty  years  ago. 
The  wonderful  material  prosperity  of  recent 
years,  the  increasing  influence  of  our  country 
as  a  world-power,  no  longer  hemmed  in  and 
confined  to  a  fractional  part  of  a  continent,  and 
the  absorption  of  men  in  the  pursuit  of  wealth,* 
have  necessarily  made  us  a  serious  people.  We 
may  laugh  at  the  dubious  fun  of  the  profession- 
ally comic  papers,  which  is  sometimes  depress- 
ing; we  may  be  amused  at  the  unspeakable 
jocosity  of  our  dailies;  the  flatness  and  emptiness 
of  some  of  our  weekly  fashion-plate  cartoons 
may  arouse  a  feeble  interest;  but  we  must 
realize  the  truth  that  we  are  dangerously  near 
to  being  decadent  in  humor.  If  any  other 
proof  of  this  state  of  things  is  necessary,  con- 

*  In  the  magazine  wherein  these  lucubrations  first  ap- 
peared the  genial  printer  made  me  say,  "the  pursuit  of 
health."     Another  instance  of  typographic  wisdom. 

148 


The   Dioersions   of  a   Book-louer 

sider  the  stories  in  some  of  our  Sunday  newspa- 
pers. No  such  awful  examples  of  vulgarity,  such 
dilapidated  relics  of  bygone  times,  such  puerile 
specimens  of  playful  idiocy,  could  ever  be  palmed 
off  successfully  upon  a  people  capable  of  ap- 
preciating true  and  original  wit.  Yet  prizes  are 
shamelessly  awarded  to  the  most  inane  and 
feeble  of  anecdotes,  many  of  them  tottering  with 
the  decrepitude  of  age.  Truly  the  perpetrators 
of  these  imbecilities  know  not  what  they  do. 
They  afford  an  instance  of  the  madness  of  print 
let  loose.  Let  no  one  misunderstand  me;  I 
know  that  the  humorous  is  not  necessarily  the 
funny.  It  may  be  serious,  but  there  must  be 
something  amusing  about  it.  It  must  not 
consist  merely  of  popular  slang,  of  distorted 
dialect,  or  of  abusive  personality,  nor  must  it 
depend  for  its  effect  upon  the  aid  of  so-called 
comic  illustrations. 

Why  Haliburton  and  Jack  Downing  have  be- 
come almost  classical  I  am  at  a  loss  to  explain. 
Who  can  comprehend  the  secret  of  popularity? 
I  often  wonder  why  Josh  Billings  was  famous, 
while  such  men  as  Robert  Newell  and  George 
Lanigan  are  practically  forgotten  except  by 
aged  persons  who  used  to  read  newspapers 
diligently.  Shaw  was  a  philosopher,  but  he 
chose  to  adopt  the  clown's  disguise  and  to  re- 
sort to  the  expedient  of  misspelling,  manifestly 

149 


The   Dioersions  of  a  Book-looer 

moved  by  the  success  of  Artemus  Ward  in 
mangling  English  orthography.  It  is  interest- 
ing to  remember  that  Ward's  perversions  of 
spelling  are  amusing  in  themselves,  while  Mr. 
Shaw's  are  not  fimny  in  the  least  and  add 
nothing  to  the  text.  For  example,  Mr.  Shaw 
says:  "It  strains  a  man's  philosophee  the  wust 
kind  to  laff  when  he  gits  beat."  Turn  the  sen- 
tence into  ordinary  English  and  it  expresses  a 
truth  which  gains  nothing  from  its  affectation 
of  jocosity.  But  what  excuse  can  be  offered 
for  such  a  saying  as  "tha  tell  us  that  'munny 
is  the  rute  of  all  evil '  and  then  tell  us  '  ter  rute 
hog  or  die'"?  This  is  merely  coarse  and  com- 
mon fooling ;  the  spelling  is  impossible,  not 
devised  to  deceive  the  most  indifferent  read- 
er, and  I  defy  the  acutest  observer  to  detect 
in  the  remark  the  remotest  glimmering  of 
thought. 

Was  Abraham  Lincoln  in  any  ordinary  sense 
a  humorist?  He  was  essentially  a  grave  and 
serious  man,  like  all  great  men.  He  told  stories 
not  so  much  because  he  enjoyed  their  wit  as 
because  he  meant  to  produce  an  effect.  He 
knew  that  many  mortals  are  unable  to  absorb 
an  idea  unless  it  is  presented  to  them  in  an 
illustrative  way,  as  parents  find  when  they 
teach  children  their  letters  by  means  of  blocks, 
and  as  the  wise  and  observant  editors  of  our 

150 


The   Diocrsions  of  a  Book-looer 

newspapers  have  learned  that  the  way  to  reach 
the  minds  of  a  majority  of  readers  is  to  give 
them  pictures.  His  shrewd  knowledge  of  hu- 
man nature  was  never  more  strikingly  exem- 
plified than  in  his  appreciation  of  the  recep- 
tiveness  of  the  ordinary  man,  needing  concrete 
things  and  strong  analogies  in  order  to  lay  the 
foundation  for  his  opinions.  The  cartoons  of 
Nast  did  more  to  overthrow  the  "Ring"  than 
Tilden's  tables  of  figures.  As  the  years  go  by 
the  story-telling  phase  of  Lincoln's  character 
is  less  conspicuous  in  the  public  mind  than  it 
was  during  his  Hfetime.  The  man  who  thought 
Nasby  especially  amusing  had  limitations  in  the 
direction  of  humor,  and  took  his  pleasure  rather 
sadly. 

It  is  due  to  a  certain  antagonism  between 
literary  men  and  what  we  may  call  "men  of 
affairs"  that  the  word  "politician"  has  about 
it  a  suggestion  of  disparagement  which  is  not 
justified  by  its  true  definition.  I  am  using  it 
in  its  real  sense  when  I  say  that  Edwin  M. 
Stanton  and  Salmon  P.  Chase  were  politicians, 
both  of  them  possessed  of  a  burning  desire  to 
be  President,  but  "Old  Abe"  was  a  better 
politician  than  either  of  them,  and  he  van- 
quished them  with  signal  success,  fortunately 
for  the  country.  I  remember  that  some  one 
was   indignant  when    I   said   this    to  him,  and 

151 


The   Dioersions  of   a   Book-locer 

expressed  the  opinion  that  I  was  almost  fit  for 
the  asylum.  But  if  you  will  study  the  life 
of  Lincoln  you  will  see  that  I  am  right.  There 
were  hosts  of  men,  eloquent  too,  who  were  just 
as  much  opposed  to  slavery  and  to  its  extension 
as  Lincoln  was;  indeed,  Lincoln  was  for  years 
denounced  by  them  as  too  lenient,  not  radical 
enough — nay,  bitterly  assailed  by  the  aboli- 
tionists. Now,  as  opposing  slavery  was  about 
all  that  Lincoln  had  publicly  done  up  to  1861, 
why  should  he  have  been  made  the  Republican 
candidate  in  i860?  Simply  because  he  was 
the  most  adroit  politician  of  his  time.  His  re- 
nomination,  about  which  there  was  at  one  time 
no  little  doubt,  was  brought  about  by  the  most 
shrewd  and  unobtrusive  methods,  all  justifiable 
and  honorable.  This  is  apart  from  books,  un- 
less I  record  my  protest  against  the  ten -vol- 
ume Life  of  Lincoln  by  Nicolay  and  Hay,  a 
work  of  great  merit,  but  it  might  well  have 
been  compressed  into  two  if  the  accomplish- 
ed authors  had  not  wished  to  write  a  his- 
tory of  a  great  war  and  to  miscall  it  a  biogra- 
phy. 

When  George  Augustus  Sala,  some  years  ago, 
compiled  for  English  consumption  two  volumes 
of  so-called  Yankee  Drolleries,  he  included  these 
examples,  which  I  give  because  the  list  has  a 
certain  significance: 

152 


The  Dicersions  of  a   Book-looer 

Artemus  Ward:  His  Book. 

Major  Jack  Downing. 

The  Nasby  Papers. 

Orpheus  C.  Kerr.  . 

The  Biglow  Papers. 

Artemus  Ward:  Travels. 

Hans  Breitmann. 

Professor  at  the  Breakfast  Table. 

Josh  Billings. 

This  is  a  veritable  salad  of  incongruities,  an 
omelette  composed  of  eggs  of  varying  degrees 
of  merit  and  freshness;  but  I  am  glad  that 
Orpheus  C.  Kerr  was  not  omitted. 

Newell  died  within  a  few  years  past,  under 
circumstances  of  peculiar  sadness.  Decidedly  a 
man  of  genius,  he  struggled,  erred,  and  failed. 
It  is  pitiful  to  think  of  his  wasted  life  and  of  his 
ignominious  end.  All  that  fine  brain -capac- 
ity, that  knowledge  of  literature,  that  originality 
of  intellect  were  swallowed  up  in  oblivion  be- 
cause he  was  heedless  of  opportunities  and 
yielded  to  the  temptations  which  beset  the  man 
without  moral  sense.  Much  that  he  wrote  is 
feeble  and  ineffective;  he  often  failed  to  reach 
the  level  of  ordinary  merit;  he  was  careless, 
wilful,  and  perverse ;  but  he  had  a  clear  literary 
perception,  a  keen  eye  for  the  weaknesses  of 
man,  and  a  wit  which  shone  brightly  through 
the  dull  mask  which  he  commonly  assumed.  I 
am    often   wrong,   and   I    may  be  wofuUy  in 

153 


The  Diversions   of  a  Book-locer 

error  in  this  instance,  but  I  believe  that  his 
Rejected  National  Hymns,  printed  tempore  the 
RebelHon,  are  as  good,  although  limited  in 
scope,  as  the  famous  Rejected  Addresses  of 
James  and  Horace  Smith,  charming  imitations, 
deservedly  admired  but  perhaps  unduly  spun 
out  and  too  diffuse  for  perfect  parodies.  I  am 
almost  afraid  to  choose  an  example  of  Newell, 
for  it  may  not  do  justice  to  his  work.  I  am 
tempted  to  quote,  because  the  meagre  and 
perfunctory  newspaper  obituaries  gave  evidence 
of  the  fact  that  Newell  was,  to  this  genera- 
tion, practically  unknown.  I  am  confident 
that  there  was  never  much  more  worthy 
and  legitimate  burlesque  than  his  sketch 
of  a  "National  Anthem"  by  "William  CuUen 
B ": 

The  sun  sinks  slowly  to  his  evening  post, 

The  sun  swells  grandly  to  his  morning  crown; 

Yet  not  a  star  our  flag  of  heav'n  has  lost, 
And  not  a  sunset  stripe  with  him  goes  down. 

So  thrones  may  fall ;  and  from  the  dust  of  them 
New  thrones  may  rise,  to  totter  like  the  last, 

But  still  our  country's  nobler  planet  glows 
While  the  eternal  stars  of  heaven  are  fast. 

We  who  are  to-day  fond  of  Thomas  Bailey 
Aldrich  can  surely  not  be  offended  at  this  per- 
version of  his  style  of  a  generation  ago: 

154 


The   Dioersions  of  a   Book-looer 

The  little  brown  squirrel  hops  in  the  com, 

The  cricket  quaintly  sings: 
The  emerald  pigeon  nods  his  head, 

And  the  shad  in  the  river  springs. 
The  dainty  sunflower  hangs  its  head 

On  the  shore  of  the  summer  sea; 
And  better  far  that  I  were  dead 

If  Maud  did  not  love  me. 

I  love  the  squirrel  that  hops  in  the  corn, 

And  the  cricket  that  quaintly  sings: 
And  the  emerald  pigeon  that  nods  his  head, 

And  the  shad  that  gayly  springs; 
I  love  the  dainty  sunflower,  too, 

And  Maud  with  her  snowy  breast; 
I  love  them  all;  but  I  love — I  love — 

I  love  my  country  best. 

It  is  tempting  to  dwell  on  these  delicious 
parodies,  or,  rather,  reproductions,  and  I  cannot 
help  quoting  one  more,  which  condenses  N.  P. 
Willis  and  gives  us  in  eight  lines  the  substance 
of  his  poetical  work: 

One  hue  of  our  flag  is  taken 

From  the  cheeks  of  my  blushing  pet, 

And  its  stars  beat  time  and  sparkle 
Like  the  studs  on  her  chemisette. 

In  blue  is  the  ocean  shadow 
That  hides  in  her  dreamy  eyes, 

It  conquers  all  men,  like  her. 
And  still  for  a  Union  flies. 

Newell  maliciously  suggests  that  the  Bryant 
hymn  was  declined  partly  by  reason  of  "  a  sus- 

155 


The  Diversions   of  a  Book-looer 

picion  that  the  poet  has  crowded  an  advertise- 
ment of  a  paper  which  he  edits  into  the  first 
line."  I  really  believe  that  Bryant  himself, 
although  he  was  of  sober  and  solemn  mind, 
would  not  have  objected  to  this  imitation,  for 
it  is  in  good  taste  and  is  amusing  at  the  same 
time.  But  one  may  never  tell  what  a  man  will 
think  of  a  burlesque  of  himself  or  of  his  style. 
A  friend  told  me  the  other  day  of  an  enter- 
tainment at  a  well-known  club  where  Sir  Henry 
Irving  was  present  and  saw  Henry  Dixey  give 
one  of  his  admirable  imitations  of  the  great  trage- 
dian. "  Do  you  like  it,  Mr.  Irving?" — he  was  not 
then  a  "  Sir" — whispered  my  friend.  "  Ha!  ha!" 
grunted  the  famous  actor,  in  his  most  pronounced 
Irvingesque,  "  I — I  pretend  to — but — I  don't'' 

We  may  judge  of  what  Newell  was,  personally, 
when  we  recall  that  he  was  married  to  Adah 
Isaacs  Menken,  the  actress  and  writer,  who  was 
at  the  time  the  wife  of  John  C.  Heenan,  from 
whom  she  was  divorced  a  year  later.  He  was 
number  three,  and  there  were  others.  Some 
may  remember  her  Infelicia,  dedicated  to  Dick- 
ens, by  permission,  and  she  was  a  friend  of 
Charles  Reade,  Swinburne,  and  many  other  emi- 
nent persons.  She  was  celebrated  as  Mazeppa 
in  the  play  of  that  name,  wherein  she  appeared 
lashed  to  a  prancing  steed,  in  the  full  costume 
of  the  character. 

156 


The  Dioersions  of  a  Boob-looer 

My  copy  of  Infelicia,  a  small  volume  of  one 
hundred  and  twenty-four  pages  (i6mo),  has  a 
facsimile  letter  of  Dickens  prefixed  to  it,  with 
a  portrait  of  the  Menken — not  the  one  taken 
with  Swinburne  looking  down  at  her  nor  the 
one  where  she  is  leaning  upon  the  ample  form 
of  the  elder  Dumas.  The  verse  is  in  form 
sometimes  touched  with  what  I  hope  I  may  be 
permitted  to  call  "Whitmania."  In  her  scorn 
of  metre,  she  even  outdoes  Whitman,  as  this  ex- 
ample testifies: 

Oh,  this  life,  after  all,  is  but  a  promise  —  a  poor 
promise,  that  is  too  heavy  to  bear — heavy  with  blood, 
reeking,  human  blood.  The  atmosphere  is  laden  with 
it.  When  I  shut  my  eyes  it  presses  so  close  to  their 
lids  that  I  must  gasp  and  struggle  to  open  them. 

It  must  be  plain  that  this  is  prose  of  the 
prosiest  description.  But  this  is  what  she 
evidently  meant  to  be  verse: 

Visions  of  Beauty,  of  Light,  and  of  Love 

Born  in  the  soul  of  a  Dream, 
Lost,  like  the  phantom-bird  under  the  dove, 

When  she  flies  over  a  stream. 

It  partakes  of  the  stage  and  sawdust  of  "  Ma- 
zeppa";  but  I  find  a  pathetic  note  in  the  first 
verse  of  her  "Infelix"  which  gives  us  a  brief 
glimpse  of  the  soul  of  one  who  might,  under 

157 


The  Dioersions  of  a  Book-looer 

favorable  conditions,  have  been  numbered  among 
those  whom  the  world  remembers: 

Where  is  the  promise  of  my  years, 

Once  written  on  my  brow? 
Ere  errors,  agonies,  and  fears 
Brought  with  them  all  that  speaks  in  tears — 
Ere  I  had  sunk  beneath  my  peers. 

Where  sleeps  that  promise  now? 

In  the  matter  of  facetious  literature — and  I 
use  the  term  "facetious"  in  its  better  sense — 
we  are  really  no  worse  off  than  our  cousins  of 
Albion.  The  humor  of  Punch  needs  no  com- 
ment, for  it  is  proverbially  sad,  dignified,  grave, 
and  oppressive.  It  is  suggestive  of  the  Egyptian 
Pyramids  and  of  the  sedate  Sphinx.  Burnand, 
the  "Happy  Thought"  man,  is  still  the  editor, 
and  his  quality  is  fairly  indicated  by  a  hon 
mot  which  I  encountered  a  few  days  ago  in 
Frith' s  Autobiography  and  Reminiscences,  and 
which  is  cited,  not  for  its  merit,  but  as  an 
example  of  his  "humor."     Frith  says: 

Mr.  Burnand  is  also  eminently  distinguished  as  a 
humourist.  .  .  .  On  one  occasion  I  described  to  him  a  din- 
ner-party at  the  Langham  Hotel,  given  by  that  bright 
genius  "Ouida."  .  .  .  The  dinner  and  the  company  were 
delightful.  One  charm  of  it,  to  me  (being,  I  regret  to 
say,  an  inveterate  smoker),  was  the  introduction  of 
cigarettes  during  the  course  of  the  dinner,  beginning,  I 
think,  after  the  fish.     I  had  heard  of  the  fashion  in 

158 


The   Diversions   of  a   Book-IoiDer 

foreign  countries,  but  it  surprised  me  as  occurring  in 
England. 

"Why  were  you  surprised?"  asked  Burnand — "you 
were  dining  with  a  Weeda." 

A  man  might  have  said  that  thing  in  the 
"woozy  hours"  after  dinner,  over  the  Scotch- 
and-soda  or  the  pony  of  brandy,  the  cigars,  and 
the  debris  of  the  feast,  while  the  feminine 
guests  were  gossiping  in  the  drawing  -  room, 
but  it  is  almost  a  crime  to  perpetuate  such  a 
monstrosity  of  paranomasia  in  a  real  book 
destined  to  occupy  space  in  a  collector's  li- 
brary. 

Despite  our  English  neighbors'  habitual  se- 
riousness, we  occasionally  encounter  something 
in  their  books  which  is  actually  amusing. 
In  rambling  through  the  Life  and  Letters  of 
Tom  Moore  I  was  interested  in  the  record  of 
calmness  and  self  -  possession  of  a  nobleman, 
Lord  Coleraine,  the  boon-companion  of  George 
IV.  when  that  royal  personage  was  Prince  Re- 
gent. Coleraine  went  one  night  to  his  bed- 
room at  an  inn,  and  found  it  occupied,  although 
he  had  reserved  it.  On  his  coming  to  the  side 
of  the  bed,  an  angry  Irishman  put  his  head  out 
and  said:  "What  the  devil  do  you  want  here, 
sir?  I  shall  have  satisfaction  for  this  affront. 
My  name  is  Johnson."  At  the  same  moment  a 
little  wizen -faced  woman  popped  her  head  from 

159 


The   Diuersions  of  a  Book-looer 

under  the  clothes.  "  Mrs.  Johnson,  I  presume?" 
said  Lord  Coleraine,  calmly. 

There  is  an  instance  of  self-possession  under 
awkward  circumstances  which  nearly  equals  the 
one  recorded  of  Lord  Coleraine,  but  it  is  more 
familiar.  Almost  every  extra-illustrator  is  well 
acquainted  with  the  Memoirs  of  Count  Gram- 
mont,  edited  by  Anthony  Hamilton.  It  is  a 
famous  treasury  in  which  one  may  store  the 
portraits  and  autographs  of  the  period  of  Charles 
IL  The  Count  was  engaged  to  the  sister  of 
Anthony,  the  lady  known  as  "/a  belle  Hamil- 
ton," and  it  is  related  that  he  left  for  France 
unmindful  of  the  bond.  At  Dover  he  was  over- 
taken by  the  young  lady's  brothers,  who  asked 
him:  "Chevalier!  Chevalier!  haven't  you  for- 
gotten something?"  "I  beg  your  pardon,  gen- 
tlemen," responded  the  noble  fugitive,  "I  have 
forgotten  to  marry  your  sister."  The  incident 
is  said  to  have  given  to  Moliere  the  idea  of  Le 
Manage  Force,  but  that  is  probably  an  inven- 
tion.    Grammont  married  "/a  belle  Hamilton." 

Mr.  Alexander  Pope,  a  person  of  much  per- 
spicacity, gravely  says : 

Manners  with  fortunes,  humours  turn  with  climes, 
Tenets  with  books,  and  principles  with  times. 

It  may  seem  strange  to  readers  of  the  twen- 
tieth century  that   men   should   have  admired 

1 60 


The   Dioersions  of  a  Book-looer 

the  scribblings  which  the  genial  and  kindly 
wine-merchant,  Frederick  Swartwout  Cozzens, 
gave  to  our  fathers  under  the  title  of  The 
Sparrowgrass  Papers.  Few  remember  them  now ; 
they  have  faded  away  into  the  oblivion  which 
overwhelms  the  ephemeral ;  yet  the  biograph- 
ical encyclopaedias  tell  us  that  "when  published 
in  a  volume  in  1856  they  obtained  a  wide  cir- 
culation," and  "gained  for  the  author  a  repu- 
tation as  one  of  the  first  of  American  humor- 
ists." As  I  write,  the  duodecimo  volume,  pub- 
lished by  Derby  &  Jackson,  is  before  me,  with 
its  illustrations — by  Darley,  of  course  —  and  its 
dedication  to  my  old  acquaintance,  long  since 
dead,  "  one  of  the  gentlest  of  humorists,  the  Rev. 
Frederick  W.  Shelton."  This  generation  knows 
not  Sparrowgrass,  and  it  is  doubtful  if  his  "  hu- 
mor" would  be  appreciated  highly  in  these  days. 
I  believe  that  the  Papers  appeared  in  1854  in  the 
Knickerbocker  Magazine,  and  they  had  the  flavor 
of  all  the  Knickerbocker  contributions,  but  they 
are  not  mentioned  in  Barrett  Wendell's  Literary 
History  of  America,  although  he  devotes  many 
pages  to  the  Knickerbocker  school.  Wendell's 
book  has  been  denounced  and  ridiculed  in  Eng- 
land, without  just  reason ;  for  while  he  may  have 
made  mistakes,  as  most  men  may,  his  work  is 
deserving  of  sincere  admiration. 

To  me,  however,  a  praiser  of  past  times,  it  is 
II  161 


The  Diuersions  of  a  Book-loccr 

always  a  pleasure  to  recur  to  the  Papers,  pos- 
sibly because  I  remember  well  the  pleasant 
personality  of  Mr.  Cozzens,  who  chose  to  dwell 
in  Yonkers,  a  town  which  also  attracted  William 
Allen  Butler  and  John  Kendrick  Bangs.  There 
must  be  something  about  Yonkers  which  ap- 
peals to  the  literary.  Cozzens  died  at  the  early 
age  of  fifty-one,  and,  while  his  works  were  not 
conspicuous  for  artistic  merit,  he  was  an  enter- 
taining man,  with  a  mild  and  harmless  face- 
tiousness,  appropriate  to  his  day,  and  he  de- 
serves our  affection.  More  assertive  and  in  his 
peculiar  and  avuncular  sphere  more  eminent, 
was  his  uncle,  William  B.  Cozzens,  the  famous 
hotel  -  keeper,  who  died  at  seventy  -  seven,  at 
West  Point,  with  which  historic  place  his  name 
is  closely  and  convivially  associated.  An  Amer- 
ican proverb  implies  that  the  "man  who  can 
keep  a  hotel"  is  among  the  most  distinguished 
Captains  of  Industry,  the  expression  Chevalier 
d' Industrie,  so  well  known  "in  this  connection," 
to  use  an  abominable  phrase,  being  discarded 
as  disrespectful.  It  was  at  lovely,  old  "  Coz- 
zens's  Hotel,"  beautifully  situated  on  the  bold 
hill  at  Highland  Falls,  a  few  miles  below  West 
Point,  a  house  which  went  away  in  flames  as 
hotels  are  wont  to  do,  that  the  grand  and 
enormous  soldier  Winfield  Scott  was  accus- 
tomed to  take  his  ease  and  to  play  whist  with 

162 


The    Dicersions   of  a   Book-locer 

the  favored  friends  who  usually  allowed  him 
to  win  in  order  to  keep  the  peace  and  to 
preserve  amicable  relations.  The  General  reg- 
ularly attended  the  services  at  the  pretty 
chapel  near  by,  built  by  Professor  Weir  and 
called  "The  Church  of  the  Holy  Innocents," 
where  a  sincere,  simple-minded,  and  devoted 
rector  for  many  years  read  the  service,  day 
in  and  day  out,  often  when  no  one  listened  ex- 
cept his  faithful  spouse,  whom,  after  the  fashion 
of  Dean  Swift,  he  addressed  as  "dearly  beloved 
Emma."  On  one  occasion,  after  General  Scott 
had  been  the  only  man  present  in  company 
with  a  devout  cohort  of  pious  females,  he  re- 
marked to  one  of  his  fellow  whist  -  players, 
"Sir,  if  it  were  not  for  the  women  of  America 
our  country  would  go  to  hell!" 

We  may  pardon  the  profanity,   for  the  old 
gentleman  was  not  far  wrong. 


IX 

De  Omnibus  Rebus  et  Quibusdam  Aliis, 

IT  sometimes  occurs  to  me  that  it  is  a  danger- 
ous thing  for  any  one  to  intrust  to  paper  or 
to  perpetuate  in  print  his  real  opinions  on  any 
subject — ^books,  authors,  or  the  events  of  life. 
There  is  much  which  may  be  said  over  the 
walnuts  and  the  wine  which  may  not  always 
be  written  down  and  sent  to  the  publisher. 
De  Quincey  made  himself  odious  to  some  of  his 
distinguished  friends  by  injudicious  frankness 
concerning  their  private  lives,  and  Froude  was 
abused  for  revealing  much  about  the  Carlyles 
which,  true  or  untrue,  ought  to  have  been  sup- 
pressed. A  few  years  ago  a  certain  bright  and 
interesting  essayist  gave  an  illustration  of  in- 
cautious candor  by  hinting  publicly  at  the  ex- 
istence of  unpleasant  facts,  known  in  literary 
circles  but  not  to  the  world  at  large,  con- 
cerning Thackeray,  Carlyle,  and  George  Eliot, 
which  aroused  curiosity  without  gratifying  it, 
and  ever  since  that  unwise  deliverance  men 
have   gossiped   about   those   three   personages, 

164 


The   Diversions   of  a   Book-louer 

stirred  up  to  inquiry  by  the  presumably  careless 
allusion.  It  calls  to  mind  Schopenhauer's  re- 
mark that  in  regard  to  reading  it  is  a  very  im- 
portant thing  to  be  able  to  refrain,  and  so  it  is 
in  regard  to  writing. 

When  the  gropings  of  the  mind  are  embalmed 
in  cold  type  they  take  on  a  seriousness  to  which 
they  are  not  entitled  on  their  merits.  Never- 
theless, I  like  to  know  what  men  actually  think, 
even  if  their  thoughts  are  hardly  important 
enough  to  deserve  preservation.  The  writer 
may  subject  himself  to  ridicule,  but  he  is  usually 
the  only  sufferer.  Wherefore  I  shall  proceed  to 
make  myself  a  target  by  uttering  opinions 
which  may  not  always  be  acceptable.  It  was 
recently  my  misfortune  to  arouse  to  indignation 
an  undoubtedly  respectable  gentleman  in  Cana- 
da by  some  uncomplimentary  assertions  about 
the  personal  attributes  of  William  Hazlitt.  My 
critic  trampled  upon  me  ruthlessly  and  called 
me  a  fool,  a  method  of  argument  crude  in  its 
construction  and  lacking  the  Barbara,  Celarent, 
and  Darii  of  the  formal  logic  taught  in  the 
schools,  but  having  about  it  a  dash  and  vigor 
which  sometimes  convinces.  It  is  simple,  withal, 
with  a  distinct  element  of  truth  in  it.  I  hold 
with  Touchstone  that  "the  fool  doth  think  he 
is  wise,  but  the  wise  man  knows  himself  to  be 
a  fool."     In  this  particular  instance,  however, 

.        i6s 


The   DiiDcrsions   of  a   Book-louer 

I  chanced  to  be  supported  by  the  authority 
of  Sir  Leslie  Stephen  as  well  as  of  Patmore  the 
elder,  so  that  I  was  in  good  company.  I  was 
wrong  only  in  repeating  disagreeable  truths. 
It  would  have  been  much  better  to  have  said 
only  pleasant  things  of  Hazlitt.  One  never 
regrets  the  speaking  of  kindly  words. 

The  honest  opinions  of  the  ordinary  man  are 
often  more  valuable  than  the  swarm  of  common- 
places which  some  of  our  didactic  writers  inflict 
upon  their  readers,  with  the  air  of  giving  us 
precious,  solemn,  and  original  truth.  I  have 
in  mind  an  essayist  of  the  day,  conscientious, 
sincere,  and  scholarly,  whose  "works"  have  what 
is  called  "a  wide  circulation,"  and  who  reels  out 
page  upon  page  of  smooth  English,  with  never 
a  gleam  of  humor  and  ever  an  affectation  of 
condescension  as  the  platitudes  pour  forth, 
seemingly  timid  about  suggesting  an  idea  rising 
above  the  level  of  the  conventional.  It  re- 
minds me  of  Orpheus  C.  Kerr's  imitation  of 
Tupper,  with  its  sage  announcement  of  im- 
questionable  propositions,  such  as: 

.  .  .  'Tis  good  to  know 
That  babes  who  walk  too  soon,  too  soon  begin 
To  walk  in  this  dark  vale  of  life  below. 

I  cannot  quite  explain  it  to  myself,  but  I 
feel   towards  this  cultivated  and   exasperating 

i66 


The   Diuersions   of   a  Book-looer 

literary  magnate  as  Carlyle  did  towards  the  po- 
litical economists.  "Is  it  true,"  he  says  in  his 
Note -Book,  "  that  of  all  quacks  that  ever  quacked 
(boasting  themselves  to  be  somebody)  in  any  age 
of  the  world,  the  Political  Economists  of  this  age 
are,  for  their  intrinsic  size,  the  loudest?  Mercy  on 
us,  what  a  quack-quacking ;  and  their  egg  (even  if 
not  a  wind  one)  is  of  value  simply  one  half -penny." 
It  is  a  temptation,  with  the  two  Note-Books 
before  us,  to  ramble  on  a  little  further  in  the 
records  of  the  gruff  and  emphatic  Thomas,  and 
to  read  what  he  thought  of  the  economic  phi- 
losophers. "The  question  of  money- making," 
he  says,  "  even  of  national  money-making,  is  not 
a  high  but  a  low  one — as  they  treat  it,  among 
the  lowest.  Could  they  tell  us  how  wealth  is 
and  should  be  distributed,  it  were  something ;  but 
they  do  not."  I  do  not  apologize  for  quotations, 
because  the  Grolier  Club  printed  only  three 
hundred  and  ninety  copies  of  the  Note-Books,  and 
they  cannot  be  very  well  known  to  the  public. 
Portions  of  them  were  used  by  Froude  in  his 
Life  of  Carlyle,  but,  as  was  generally  the  case 
with  his  transcripts  from  manuscripts,  with  many 
inaccuracies.^  The  historian  Samuel  Rawson 
Gardiner  said  of  Froude:  "Whenever  I  find 
myself  particularly  perplexed  on   any  point,  I 

'  Charles  Eliot  Norton's  Preface, 
167 


The  Dioersions   of  a  Book-lou)er 

look  to  see  what  Froude  has  to  say  about  it. 
I  always  find  his  help  invaluable,  for  I  can 
trust  implicitly  in  his  unfailing  instinct  for 
arriving  at  false  conclusions;  and  the  more 
positive  he  becomes,  the  safer  I  feel  in  adopting 
a  diametrically  opposite  view."  When  Carlyle 
was  belaboring  the  economists  in  disrespectful 
fashion  he  was  very  poor  indeed,  indulging,  to 
use  the  trite  phrase,  in  plain  living  and  high 
thinking.  It  is  odd  that  men's  notions  about 
the  dignity  of  money-making  and  the  appro- 
priate distribution  of  wealth  vary  according  to 
their  personal  circumstances.  When  the  treas- 
ury is  full,  the  world  assumes  an  aspect  al- 
together different  from  that  which  it  wears 
when  one  is  not  confronted  by  a  surplus.  I 
have  always  believed  that  if  an  anarchist  could 
be  seated  upon  the  bench  of  the  Supreme  Court 
of  the  United  States  he  would  soon  become  as 
conservative  as  his  brethren,  which,  perhaps,  is 
not  saying  much  for  him. 

Carlyle  was  modest  in  his  requirements.  We 
know  from  him  that  in  1830  Francis  Jeffrey 
offered  him  ;^ioo  a  year,  "having  learned  that 
this  sum  met  my  yearly  wants."  It  seems  a 
small  stipend  when  we  remember  that  in  1807 
Constable  paid  Sir  Walter  Scott  one  thousand 
guineas  for  Marmion,  and  the  next  year  ;^i5oo 
for  his  edition  of  Swift's  Life  and  Works.    Yet 

168 


The  Diocrsions  of  a  Book-loDer 

Johnson  sold  Rasselas  for  ;^ioo,  and  thought 
that  he  was  doing  a  grand  thing  for  his  friend 
when  he  disposed  of  the  copyright  of  the  Vicar 
of  Wakefield  for  ;^6o,  while  Goldsmith  himself 
did  scarcely  as  much  for  his  own  account  when  he 
parted  with  "  The  Traveller  "  for  ;<^2i.  Gray  re- 
ceived only  £40  for  all  of  his  poems,  but  Crabbe, 
whom  Horace  Smith  called  "  Pope  in  worsted 
stockings,"  ^  obtained  from  Murray  ;^3ooo  for 
Tales  of  the  Hall  and  the  copyright  of  his  other 
poetic  works.  Robertson  received,  some  say, 
;^38oo,  and  others  ;^45oo,  for  his  History  of 
Charles  the  Fifth,  while  Carlyle,  "after  twenty 
years  of  such  labors  as  Robertson  never  dreamed 
of,  had  not  been  able,  with  all  his  copyrights 
and  his  current  earnings,  to  stretch  his  aver- 
age yearly  income  beyond  ;£i5o."  ^  We  are  told 
that  if  his  French  Revolution  failed  "he  had 
resolved  to  abandon  literature,  buy  spade  and 
rifle,  and  make  for  the  backwoods  of  America."^ 
When  he  was  thus  despairing  he  had  reached 
his  fortieth  year.  Thomas  Carlyle,  standing 
upon  the  banks  of  the  Missouri,  a  rifle  in  one 
hand  and  a  spade  in  the  other,  with  Jane  Welsh 
Carlyle  by  his  side,  would  surely  have  been  a 

^  When  I  said  this  to  Mr.  Howells  one  evening  last  winter 
he  gave  me  a  look  of  pitying  scorn  and  declined  ftirther  con- 
versation. 

^  George  Birkbeck  Hill,  Writers  and  Readers,  32. 

'  Froude's  Life  of  Carlyle. 

169 


The  Diuersions   of  a  Book-loucr 

curious  object  to  behold.  But  Mrs.  Carlyle  had 
too  much  common-sense  to  suffer  herself  or  her 
spouse  ever  to  be  in  such  a  predicament.  If 
well  advised,  I  fancy  Carlyle  would  have  dis- 
carded the  spade  and  substituted  in  its  place  a 
good,  serviceable  axe.  I  cannot  refrain  from  ob- 
serving that  I  have  felt  a  strange  and  novel 
affection  for  the  man  since  I  have  read  Jennie's 
scolding  of  him  for  feeding  the  cat  at  the  table. 
The  truth  may  as  well  be  told  here  and 
now:  almost  all  famous  literary  persons  are 
actors,  and  in  this  respect  they  differ  not  from 
great  lawyers,  great  preachers,  and  great  states- 
men. In  his  way  Carlyle  was  as  much  of  a 
Thespian  as  Garrick  or  Kemble,  Booth  or  Jef- 
erson.  In  Mr.  Hague's  interesting  little  sketch 
of  a  vigit  to  No.  5  Cheyne  Row,'  we  read 
how  the  accomplished  geologist,  then  a  youth, 
replied  to  Carlyle's  inquiry  touching  his  occu- 
pation, that  he  was  a  practical  geologist,  es- 
pecially concerned  in  mining  pursuits.  "  What 
do  you  mine  for?"  asked  Carlyle.  "Gold  and 
silver,"  responded  Mr.  Hague.  "Gold!"  ex- 
claimed the  Sage  of  Chelsea.  "You  mine  for 
gold!  That's  a  good-for-nothing  pursuit.  The 
biggest  gold  nugget  ever  found  was  never  half 
so  useful  to  the  world  as  one  good,  mealy  po- 
tato." 

'  The  Century,  July,  1902. 
170 


The  Diuersions  of  a  Book-loDer 

That  observation  was  a  childish  piece  of  af- 
fectation, wholly  unworthy  of  a  philosopher, 
purely  a  gallery-play — as  the  boys  call  it,  with 
the  sententiousness  of  slang.  One  might  say 
that  the  Life  of  Frederick  the  Great  and.  the 
History  of  the  French  Revohiiion  were  not  as 
useful  to  the  world  as  a  cook-book  or  a  dic- 
tionary. The  man  who  knows  the  world  knows 
that  Carlyle  was  merely  saying  something  which 
he  thought  was  odd,  bright,  and  peculiar ;  some- 
thing to  startle  the  young  American,  who  would 
treasure  it  in  his  memory  and  repeat  it  to  other 
Americans.  It  is  all  of  a  piece  with  Tennyson's 
hiding  his  face  in  a  cloak  when  visitors  intruded, 
and  with  the  performances  of  the  bom  actor, 
Charles  Dickens,  whose  daily  life  had  always 
about  it  the  aroma  of  the  footlights.  The 
writers  of  the  present  time  advertise  them- 
selves with  much  more  delicacy  and  good  judg- 
ment, having  a  pretence  of  shrinking  modesty, 
tempered  with  newspaper  paragraphs,  casual 
portraits  in  magazines,  and  unsolicited  "in- 
terviews." 

We  were  reflecting  about  the  egotistical  utter- 
ances of  those  who  frankly  proclaim  their  real 
opinions,  seeming  to  think  them  important; 
like  myself,  for  example,  often  rushing  in  where 
angels  fear  to  tread.  I  do  it  because  it  pleases 
me  and  harms  nobody,  and  I  am  not  afraid  of 

171 


The  Dioersions   of  a  Book-locer 

that  one  little  capital  "I"  which  scares  so 
many,  but  which  is  dearer  to  every  human 
being  than  any  other  letter  in  the  alphabet. 
"There  is  no  single  vowel  which  men's  mouths 
can  pronounce  with  such  difference  of  effect," 
said  Lowell;  "that  which  one  shall  hide  away, 
as  it  were,  behind  the  substance  of  his  discourse, 
or,  if  he  bring  it  to  the  front,  shall  use  merely 
to  give  an  agreeable  account  of  individuality  to 
what  he  says,  another  shall  make  an  offensive 
challenge  to  the  self-satisfaction  of  all  his  hearers, 
and  an  unwarranted  intrusion  upon  each  man's 
sense  of  personal  importance,  irritating  every 
pore  of  his  vanity,  like  a  dry,  northwest  wind 
to  a  goose-flesh  of  opposition  and  hostility."^ 
I  fear  that  I  am  not  in  the  first-mentioned  class, 
and  I  shall  humbly  endeavor  not  to  stray  into 
offensiveness. 

One  who  thoroughly  revealed  himself  in  what 
he  wrote  was  our  old  friend  who  loved  to  be 
called  "The  Boswell";  and  I  am  thinking  not 
so  much  of  the  perennial  "Samuel  Johnson"  as 
of  the  elaborately  entitled  volume  An  Account 
of  Corsica :  Memoir  of  Pascal  Paoli,  and  a 
Journal  of  a  Tour  to  the  Island,  which  Gray 
called  "a  dialogue  between  a  green-goose  and  a 
hero."     I  have  heard  of  a  green-goose,  but  I  do 

^  My  Study  Windows,  175. 
172 


The   Dioersions   of  a   Book-looer 

not  know  wherein  it  is  differentiated  from  any- 
other  species  of  goose,  and  it  must  resemble  the 
purple  cow.  Yet  Boswell's  Journal  has  its 
value  because  the  man  whom  Gray  honored  by 
the  verdant-anserine  title  was  so  vain  that  he 
laid  bare  his  own  soul  and  told  us  what  others 
would  have  hidden. 

When  we  recall  the  fact  that  Gray,  living  to 
the  age  of  fifty-five,  left  but  about  fourteen 
hundred  lines,  we  must  wonder  at  the  magni- 
tude of  his  reputation  ;  but  surely  he  gave 
forth  nothing  unless  it  was  the  mature  result 
of  laborious  effort.  When  Nicholas  Biddle,  of 
United  States  Bank  notoriety,  was  asked  for  a 
copy  of  his  address  before  the  Literary  Societies 
of  Princeton  College,  in  order  that  it  might  be 
published,  he  sent  it  with  a  letter  expressing 
his  regret  that  he  had  not  "  had  leisure  to  make 
it  shorter."  *  It  is  good  to  condense  and  to 
revise,  but  perhaps  revision  may  be  carried  too 
far,  and  one  may  by  infinite  pains  succeed  in 
refining  and  polishing  all  the  life  out  of  a  book. 
Some  one  said  of  Mark  Akenside's  Pleasures  of 
the  Imagination,  remodelled  in  1757,  that  he  had 
"  stuffed  it  with  intellectual  horse-hair."   Jerdan 


*  I  am  sorry  to  confess  that  he  borrowed  it  from  Pascal's 
srxXeenth.  Lettre  Provinciale  :  "  Je  n'ai  fait  celle-ci  plus 
longue  que  parce  que  je  n'ai  pas  eu  le  loisir  de  la  faire  plus 
courte." 

173 


The  Diversions   of  a  Book-looer 

says  that  Campbell  often  weakened  his  first 
poetical  idea  by  overpolish,  as  Scott  often  left 
his  with  blots. 

I  like  to  take  down  the  copy  of  The  Poems  of 
Mr.  Gray,  with  notes  by  "Gilbert  Wakefield, 
late  Fellow  of  Jesus  College,  Cambridge,"  printed 
by  G.  Kearsley  in  1786,  bound  by  Charles  Mur- 
ton,  and  extra-illustrated  by  some  affectionate 
owner  with  portraits  and  engravings  appeal- 
ing strongly  to  the  lover  of  good  books.  But 
some  one  lately  said  to  me:  "What  did  Gray 
ever  write  except  the  *  Elegy?'  "  This  was  a 
person  of  refinement,  moderately  well  read,  ac- 
cording to  the  standard  of  the  day,  but  he 
had  wholly  forgotten  "ye  distant  spires,  ye  an- 
tique towers,"  of  the  "Ode  on  a  Distant  Pros- 
pect of  Eton  College,"  and  even  "ruin  seize 
thee,  ruthless  King,"  and  "weave  the  warp  and 
weave  the  woof,  the  winding  sheet  of  Edward's 
race,"  which  used  to  be  examples  of  alliteration 
for  us  school-boys  of  forty  years  ago. 

Gray  deserves  an  added  fame  for  what  he 
wrote  to  Walpole  about  that  personage's  gout: 
"The  pain  in  your  feet,  /  can  bear."  It  was  a 
concise  expression  of  a  truth  which  all  men  must 
acknowledge  with  a  blush  of  shame.  I  have 
observed  that  my  friends  endure  patiently  mine 
own  physical  infirmities.  It  is  not  unkindness, 
but   that  utter   want  of   interest  in   the  health 

174 


The  Dioersions   of  a  Book-loDer 

of  our  fellow-beings  which  saddens  the  souls  of 
those  who  have  a  belief  in  the  brotherhood  of 
man. 

While  Gray  limited  himself  to  a  meagre  out- 
put of  verse,  he  was  a  delightful  writer  of  letters, 
although  he  does  not  appear  to  belong  to  the 
order  of  famous  letter- writers.  The  roamer  in 
the  library  may  now  and  then  take  from  the 
shelf  one  of  those  neat  and  attractive  duodecimos 
of  the  Pickering  edition  of  Gray's  works,  pub- 
lished in  1835,  bearing  the  well-known  anchor 
and  wonderfully  contorted  fish,  with  the  motto, 
"  Aldi  Discip.  Anglus" — the  edition  revised  by 
the  Rev.  John  Mitford ;  and  if  he  has  any  fond- 
ness for  what  is  worthy,  he  cannot  help  stroll- 
ing about  in  the  well  -  trimmed  fields  opened 
to  his  trespassing  excursions.  "  Love  does  not 
live  at  the  Custom  House,"  Gray  writes  to 
Walpole  in  1 738.  We  of  this  day  and  generation 
may  surely  echo  that  sentiment  after  our  ex- 
periences upon  the  wharves  of  this  free  country. 

It  seems  to  be  rather  a  silly  and  vulgar 
thing  to  lay  a  tax  upon  him  who  is  guilty  of 
bringing  home  from  other  lands  an  object  of  art 
or  a  relic  of  antiquity,  but  I  suppose  that  it  is 
presumptuous  for  any  one  to  possess  himself  of 
anything  which  every  one  else  has  not.  For  it 
is  a  land  of  equality,  in  theory  at  least,  although 
I  have  observed  that,  where  every  one  is  the 

175 


The  Dioersions   of   a  Book-loocr 

equal  of  every  one  else,  some  are  much  more 
uncomfortable  than  others.  My  idea  of  equality 
is  what  Tocqueville  said  was  that  of  a  French 
politician — "  No  one  shall  be  in  a  better  posi- 
tion than  mine."  It  may  be  questioned  whether 
one  is  worse  off  under  the  rule  of  a  single  despot 
than  he  is  under  the  dominion  of  a  plural  one. 
I  heard  a  sarcastic  millionaire  say  some  years 
ago  that  he  would  rather  deal  with  a  boss  than 
with  a  reform  administration,  because  under 
boss-rule  you  had  to  pay  only  one  man,  while 
you  had  to  buy  at  least  a  dozen  reformers. 
Some  American  who  visited  Russia  was  asked  on 
his  return  what  most  impressed  him  during  his 
sojourn  in  the  land  of  the  Czar,  and  he  replied, 
in  substance,  "  One  hundred  and  thirty  millions 
of  people  ground  under  the  iron  heel  of  the 
worst  tyranny  in  the  world,  and  all  profoundly 
unconscious  of  it."  I  am  thinking  at  the  mo- 
ment not  so  much  of  my  experience  with  the 
illuminated  manuscript  as  of  the  fate  of  my  little 
figure  of  Buddha,  which  was  classed  and  taxed 
as  "  a  manufacture  of  metal."  It  seemed  so  dis- 
respectful to  the  Oriental  divinity. 

"  Rousseau's  Letters,"  writes  Gray  to  Walpole 
(1764),  "I  am  reading  heavily,  heavily!  He 
justifies  himself,  till  he  convinces  me  that  he 
deserved  to  be  burnt,  at  least  that  his  book  did." 
It  is  refreshing  to  scent  such  an  honest  whiff  of 

176 


The   Dicersions  of  a  Book-looer 

pure  air.  How  we  get  at  the  truth  of  things  in 
familiar  letters!  For  my  part,  I  love  Gray  for 
that  sane,  sincere  comment  on  a  magnificent 
literary  person  whose  fame  is  to  me  utterly 
unaccountable.  A  sentimental  scribbler,  with 
tiresome  and  stupid  social  and  political  theories, 
he  was  always  redolent  of  the  gutter.  A  man 
who  lived  with  a  coarse  cook  and  sent  his  five 
children  by  her  to  a  foundling  hospital!  In 
these  days  he  is  known  chiefly  by  the  famous 
Confessions,  which  appear  to  me  to  be  both  dull 
and  dirty.  No  wonder  that  the  calm,  clear,  and 
honorable  mind  of  Gray  found  no  point  of  con- 
tact with  the  mind  of  the  morbid  Rousseau.  * 

There  does  not  appear  to  be  any  perceptible 
diminution  in  the  supply  of  historical  works. 
Every  year  brings  to  us  a  new  crop  of  histories, 
and  one  who  loves  such  things  needs  more  than 
twenty-four  hours  in  the  day  to  keep  up  with 
the  endless  procession.  If  history  is  philoso- 
phy teaching  by  examples,  as  Bolingbroke  said, 
misquoting  Dionysius  of  Halicamassus,  who  in 
turn  quoted  from  Thucydides,  we  shall  never  be 
at  a  loss  for  examples.  It  is  always  tempting, 
this  telling  of  a  nation's  story,   the  narrative 

*  Mr.  Bodley,  in  his  admirable  France,  refers  to  "  the  crude 
philosophy  of  Rousseau,  with  its  bad  method  and  its  false 
and  precipitate  solutions." 

177 


The  Dioersions  of  a  Book-looer 

of  the  events  of  a  period,  the  consideration  of 
an  epoch  of  the  world's  life.  History  and  her 
sister,  biography,  will  always  endure,  while  per- 
haps, as  the  Petersburg  Nowoje  Wremja  pre- 
dicted not  long  ago,  science  and  the  stern 
reality  of  life  are  bound  to  destroy  the  novel. 
One  who  takes  his  pen  in  hand,  according  to 
the  phrase  of  the  old-fashioned  letter  -  writer, 
must  needs  be  attracted  to  the  field  of  historical 
research. 

We  have  had  a  real  revolution  in  history- 
writing  since  the  days  of  Gibbon  and  his  pom- 
pous but  wonderful  Decline  and  Fall,  which  re- 
mains a  monument  of  artistic  skill  and  of  in- 
dustrious research.  When  he  gave  one  of  his 
volumes  to  the  Duke  of  Gloucester,  who  possessed 
the  gigantic  intellect  of  his  family,  that  wise 
personage  said,  affably:  "  Another  damned  thick 
book!  Always  scribble,  scribble,  scribble!  Eh, 
Mr.  Gibbon?"  I  am  sorry  that  the  eminent 
Panjandrum  of  literature,  Mr.  Andrew  Lang,  has 
seen  fit  to  mutilate,  disfigure,  and  spoil  that 
story  in  his  otherwise  charming  introduction  to 
an  exceedingly  attractive  little  book,  The  Pleas- 
ures of  Literature  and  the  Solace  of  Books,  com- 
piled by  Joseph  Shaylor.  I  cannot  understand 
why  Mr.  Lang,  who  is  facile  princeps  as  a  hu- 
morous narrator,  should  make  the  Duke  say: 
"  What,  another  damned  great  volume!    Always 

178 


The   Dioersions  of  a  Book-looer 

writing,  writing,  Mr.  Gibbon."  To  my  mind,  he 
loses  the  subtle  fun  of  the  ducal  deliverance, 
and  I  do  not  think  that  he  has  the  words  as 
they  were  spoken.  Mr.  Lang  writes  so  many 
things,  and  usually  writes  so  well,  that  he  is  to 
be  pardoned  for  this  trifling  slip ;  but  I  think  I 
may  be  excused  for  correcting  him,  as  I  do  on 
the  authority  of  Best's  Memorials  and  of  the 
accurate  Sir  Leslie  Stephen, 

What  an  absurd  performance  it  was  when 
Thomas  Bowdler,  that  precious  prince  of  pru- 
dery, brought  forth  an  edition  of  Gibbon  "for 
families  and  young  persons"!  Bowdler' s  neph- 
ew, a  chip  of  the  avuncular  block,  says,  in  a 
note  to  the  edition  of  1826,  which  is  a  delicious 
foreshadowing  of  Podsnap,  "  It  was  the  pecuHar 
happiness  of  the  writer  "  to  have  so  purified 
Shakespeare  and  Gibbon  that  they  could  no 
longer  "raise  a  blush  on  the  cheek  of  modest 
innocence  nor  plant  a  pang  in  the  breast  of  the 
devout  Christian."  Bowdler,  who  was  a  pre- 
monition of  Charles  Reade's  "prurient  prude," 
does  not  seem  to  have  tried  his  hand  upon  the 
Old  Testament,  which  surely  needed  his  chasten- 
ing touch,  if  Shakespeare  did.  We  all  know  the 
word  "  bowdlerize,"  but  every  one  does  not  know 
that  it  was  first  used  in  print,  as  nearly  as  I 
can  tell,  by  General  Peronet  Thompson  in  1836, 
in  his  Letters  of  a  Representative  to  his  Constit- 

179 


The  Dioersions  of  a  Book-looer 

uents  during  the  Session  of  i8j6,  where  he 
says  that  there  are  certain  classical  names  in 
the  writings  of  the  apostles  which  modem  ultra- 
Christians  would  probably  have  "  Bowdler-ized." 
Perhaps  the  wonderful  man,  whether  his  name 
be  William  Shakespeare  or  Francis  Bacon,  who 
wrote  As  You  Like  It  may  have  been  having  a 
prophetic  vision  of  Bowdler  and  nephew  when 
he  said:  "Here  comes  a  pair  of  very  strange 
beasts,  which  in  all  tongues  are  called  fools." 

We  may  pause  a  moment  to  lament  the  fact 
that  while  Duruy's  Rome  has  an  index,  Merivale's 
history  and  Gibbon's  are  neither  of  them  equip- 
ped with  that  necessary  article.  Were  I  the 
czar  of  literature  (and  I  think  I  am  fully  com- 
petent to  exercise  supreme  sovereignty  in  that 
realm),  I  would  refuse  a  copyright  to  any  book 
which  had  no  index,  although  Goldsmith  sneers 
at  this  useful  adjunct  when  he  says  that  "  one 
writer,  for  instance,  excels  at  a  plan  or  a  title- 
page,  another  works  away  the  body  of  the  book, 
and  a  third  is  a  dab  at  an  index."  If  an  author 
is  too  great  or  too  lazy  to  do  the  work  himself, 
he  must  surely  be  able  to  hire  somebody  to  do 
the  dabbing. 

Neither  Grote,  the  banker-historian  of  Greece, 

nor  Gibbon  owed  anything  to  academic  training. 

Gibbon  spent  fourteen  months  at  Oxford,  and 

he  said  that  they  were  the  most  idle  and  un- 

i8o 


The   Dioersions  of  a   Book-loocr 

profitable  of  his  whole  life.  But  at  that  time, 
as  Sir  Leslie  Stephen  observes,  "the  university 
was  plunged  in  port  and  prejudice."  Moreover, 
we  must  not  take  all  that  Gibbon  said  as  literally- 
true.  Every  one  remembers  his  assertion  that 
his  idea  of  the  Decline  and  Fall  came  as  he 
"sat  musing  amid  the  ruins  of  the  Capitol  while 
the  barefooted  friars  were  singing  vespers  in 
the  Temple  of  Jupiter."  It  may  have  been 
so,  but,  like  Lord  Eldon  in  most  of  the  causes 
which  came  before  him,  I  am  inclined  to  say,  "  I 
doubt." 

It  would  be  silly  to  infer  from  Gibbon's  ex- 
perience that  a  real  college  life  would  not  have 
been  a  benefit  to  him,  as  his  service  as  "the 
Captain  of  Hampshire  Grenadiers"  was  "not 
useless  to  the  historian  of  the  Roman  empire." 
In  these  modem  days  we  hear  presidents  of 
large  corporations  and  millionaires  who  have 
accumulated  enormous  fortunes  by  means  of 
their  capacity  for  what  is  termed  "business" 
send  out  their  sneers  at  college  men,  and  echo 
the  sentiment  ascribed  to  Horace  Greeley — "of 
all  horned  cattle,  deliver  me  from  a  college 
graduate."  Yet  these  men  are  not  altogether 
to  be  censured;  they  are  hopelessly  fettered  by 
their  own  limitations.  Having  attained  "  suc- 
cess" in  the  material  sense  and  the  wealth 
which  is  measured  by  the  dollar  standard,  they 

i8i 


The   Dioersions   of  a   Book-looer 

are  wholly  unable  to  peer  beyond  their  narrow 
horizon.  The  man  who  has  not  been  fortunate 
enough  to  have  had  a  college  life  may  be  a 
valuable  member  of  society,  but  he  does  not 
know  and  he  can  never  know  what  he  has  lost. 
He  thinks  that  it  was  merely  a  question  of 
studying  text-books,  or  of  athletic  sports,  or 
of  pranks  and  lawless  boyishness,  and  he  is 
ignorant.  Hence,  when  he  unloads  upon  us 
the  slag  of  his  mind  he  presents  a  spectacle 
which  may  well  cause  "laughter  for  a  month." 
So  might  the  street-boy,  deriving  his  ideas  of 
music  from  the  outgivings  of  the  peripatetic 
organ-grinder,  venture  to  express  opinions  of 
Bach  and  Beethoven;  so  might  the  sign-painter 
tell  us  his  views  of  Rembrandt  and  of  Raphael; 
and  so  might  the  ragged  child  who  shrieks  the 
names  of  the  saffron  journals  of  our  imperial 
city  attempt  to  enlighten  us  upon  "  the  divine 
Milton,  that  mighty  orb  of  song,"  or  "the  mar- 
vellous boy,  the  sleepless  soul  that  perished 
in  his  pride."  I  know  that  hundreds  are  grad- 
uated who  have  absorbed  very  little  knowl- 
edge of  the  course  of  study,  but  they  are  in  a 
minority.  Their  existence  tells  no  more  against 
the  university  than  the  existence  of  backsliders 
tells  against  the  Church.  The  person  who  has 
struggled  to  "get  his  education"  by  himself  has 
many  excellent  qualities,  and  he  is  deserving 
182 


The  Dioersions   of  a   Book-looer 

of  our  admiration  for  his  bravery  and  persist- 
ence, but  he  usually  has  one  characteristic — 
he  rejoices  loudly  over  some  supposed  discovery 
which  comes  to  him  as  a  new  thing,  whereas  it  is 
not  new,  and  the  trained  men  learned  it  so  long 
before  him  that  they  have  almost  forgotten  it. 
The  self-made  individual  commonly  takes  him- 
self too  seriously;  as  Kipling  has  it,  there  is 
"too  much  ego  in  his  cosmos."  He  is  usually 
devoid  of  that  sense  of  humor  which  is  a  saving 
grace  to  mankind.  He  seldom  realizes  how 
amusing  he  is,  and  all  his  doings  are  of  vast 
moment  to  him.  At  college  he  would  have 
learned  that  much-needed  lesson  of  human 
equality.  Still,  Washington  and  Lincoln  were 
not  college  men,  and  the  notable  possessors  of 
wealth  have  attained  international  notoriety 
without  having  enjoyed  the  advantage  of  a 
degree ;  but  we  cannot  all  of  us  be  Washingtons 
or  Lincolns,  Schwabs  or  Carnegies,  leaders  of 
men  or  lords  of  finance,  and  perhaps  we  are  not 
anxious  to  take  upon  ourselves  their  appalling 
responsibilities.  The  obscure  book-lover  will  not 
presume  to  aspire  to  such  a  rank,  but  he  may 
be  very  happy  in  his  own.  Most  of  the  barons 
of  the  money- world  are  estimable  gentlemen, 
whose  good  deeds  are  known  to  many;  but  I 
wish  that  they  would  not  put  up  the  prices  of 
books  and  autographs  so  high  that  I  am  fair- 

183 


The  Diversions  of  a  Book-looer 

ly  driven  out  of  the  market.  We  ought  not, 
however,  to  complain.  While  our  betters  have 
"Rhenish  wine  to  drink,"  we  humbler  mortals 

...  At  junket  or  at  jink 
Must  be  content  with  toddy. 

Mr.  Gilbert  may  have  had,  when  he  wrote  these 
lines,  a  perception  of  the  fact  that  there  are 
some  advantages  about  toddy,  and  Rhenish 
wine  does  not  agree  with  everybody. 

Coleridge  accused  Gibbon  of  having  reduced 
history  to  a  mere  collection  of  splendid  anecdotes ; 
and  his  readers  cannot  help  observing  what  has 
been  called  his  "deficient  insight  into  the  great 
social  forces."  But  men  in  those  days  did  not 
write  history  in  the  fashion  of  John  Richard 
Green,  with  whom  the  social  development  is  the 
principal  feature.  Dean  Stanley  said  to  him: 
"  I  see  you  are  in  danger  of  becoming  picturesque. 
Beware  of  it.  I  have  suffered  from  it."  Surely 
he  did  not  carry  the  picturesque  feature  be- 
yond proper  limits.  Goethe  said  to  Crabbe 
Robinson  about  Byron,  "There  is  no  padding 
in  his  poetry";  and  there  is  no  padding  in 
Green's  historical  work.  It  is  said  of  him  that 
if  he  had  carried  out  his  purpose  of  writing  his 
history  of  the  Angevin  kings  he  might  have 
been  known  as  a  great  historian  instead  of  a 
popular  historian.     But  "he  was  not  ashamed 

184 


I 


The   Dioersions   of  a    Boob-locer 

to  write  the  history  of  the  English  people  for 
the  instruction  of  the  English  people,"  and 
therefore  his  value  to  the  world  is  perhaps 
greater  than  that  of  Stubbs  and  of  Free- 
man. 

Minto,  speaking  of  the  popularity  of  Pamela, 
says:  "Books  must  be  new  in  form  as  in  sub- 
stance before  they  create  such  a  furor.  .  .  . 
There  has  been  nothing  like  it  in  my  time.  The 
nearest  approach  I  recollect  is  J.  R.  Green's 
Short  History  of  the  English  People.  Fashion- 
able ladies  carried  it  about  with  them  on  their 
visits  to  country-houses." 

The  time  may  not  be  ripe  for  it,  but  we  are 
still  awaiting  the  appearance  of  a  great  and 
comprehensive  history  of  the  United  States. 
We  have  excellent  views  of  periods  by  such 
competent  men  as  James  Ford  Rhodes  and  the 
late  John  Fiske,  but  no  philosophic  survey  of 
the  entire  field.  It  was  rather  a  brutal  remark 
of  Walter  Bagehot  that  the  reason  why  so  few 
good  books  are  written  is  that  so  few  people 
that  can  write  know  anything.  We  might  well 
change  the  form  of  the  proposition  and  say  that 
the  reason  is  that  so  few  persons  who  know 
anything  can  write.  Bagehot  thinks  that  the 
difficulty  comes  from  the  fact  that  the  author  is 
apt  to  live  in  and  among  his  books  instead  of 
going  forth  into  the  world  and  seeing  what  men 

185 


The  Diuersions  of  a  Book-looer 

are  instead  of  reading  what  Bergersdicius  and 
^nesidemus  said  men  were. 

Talking  of  Bagehot,  and  of  his  somewhat 
superciHous  sneers  at  the  author  who  lives 
among  his  books  instead  of  going  out  into  the 
streets  and  observing  that  interesting  creature, 
the  average  man,  doing  a  variety  of  things 
which  are  of  not  the  least  concern  to  any  one 
but  the  doer,  we  cannot  help  thinking  that  if  that 
energetic  and  pleasant  writer,  who,  despite  his 
appalling  blunders  in  reference  and  in  quotation, 
is  a  mine  of  information,  unaccountably  neglect- 
ed by  the  world,  had  not  delved  into  books, 
he  could  never  have  written  the  five  thick  vol- 
umes which  The  Travelers  Insurance  Company 
printed  some  ten  years  ago  or  more.  I  can 
imagine  his  horror  at  being  used  as  an  adver- 
tisement of  a  life-insurance  corporation. 

What  he  says  of  my  beloved  Southey  arouses 
my  resentment.  "Southey,"  he  writes,  "had 
no  events,  no  experiences.  His  wife  kept  house 
and  allowed  him  pocket-money,  just  as  if  he 
had  been  a  German  professor  devoted  to  accents, 
tobacco,  and  the  dates  of  Horace's  amours." 
No  doubt  if  Southey  had  kept  house,  as  Bagehot 
seems  to  think  he  should  have  done,  he  would 
not  have  written  the  Life  of  Nelson  or  the  Life 
of  Wesley,  Coleridge's  "favorite  among  favorite 
books."     According   to   my   observation,   those 

1 86 


The   Dioersions   of  a   Book-locer 

persons  who  keep  house  while  their  wives  write 
the  books  have  not  been  conspicuous  for  valuable 
services  to  mankind. 

Events  are  all  very  well,  but  surely  it  comes 
back  to  the  fundamental  truth  heretofore  enun- 
ciated that  few  people  who  know  anything 
can  write.  He  who  spends  his  days  in  the  tur- 
moil of  events  has  no  time  for  extended  or  com- 
prehensive literary  production.  Gladstone  ac- 
complished wonders,  but  he  never  could  have 
given  us  Green's  History.  Bancroft  was  a  pol- 
itician and  a  cabinet  officer,  but  his  work  is  a 
stilted,  lifeless,  and  wordy  example  of  the  ob- 
solete method  of  historical  composition.  Lord 
Mahon  was  diligent,  industrious,  and  impartial, 
and  he  had  the  opportunity  of  using  unpublished 
manuscripts,  but  his  style  is  dull  and  unat- 
tractive. When  the  world  commends  a  writer 
as  industrious,  it  damns  him  with  faint  praise, 
and  soon  forgets  him.  The  best  work  of  the 
men  of  events  is  usually  of  the  order  known  as 
memoires  pour  servir,  by  no  means  to  be  despised, 
but  yet  mere  storehouses  for  the  historian  to 
plunder.  On  the  whole,  I  think  that  he  must 
know  good  books  who  makes  good  books. 

Bagehot  himself  admits  that  the  historian 
needs  imagination  in  conceiving  of  the  events  of 
a  long  history  and  in  putting  them  forward  in 
skilful  narration.     He  must  not  be  deficient  in 

187 


The  Diversions   of  a  Book-looer 

ideality ;  he  must  have  what  Walter  Pater  calls  a 
certain  curiosity;  and  as  "history  is,  at  bottom, 
a  problem  in  psychology,"  he  must  be  something 
of  a  psychologist.  This  list  of  requirements 
brings  to  my  mind  the  instance  of  a  friend  who 
wished  to  retain  counsel  in  an  important  litiga- 
tion in  Boston,  and  who  wrote  to  a  lawyer  there 
giving  details  and  specifications  of  all  the  com- 
manding traits  and  qualities  which  his  adviser 
must  possess  in  order  to  meet  the  exigencies  of 
the  situation.  "The  man  does  not  exist," 
answered  the  Bostonian;  "go  to  the  grave  of 
Rufus  Choate!" 

We  must  patiently  await  the  advent  of  our 
national  historian.  Some  day  he  will  be  bom 
and  we  will  welcome  him  with  loud  acclaims. 
When  he  comes  I  hope  that  he  will  not  tell  us  as 
much  about  the  particulars  of  those  weary  and 
interminable  controversies  with  England  and 
France  over  commercial  matters,  or  the  congres- 
sional squabbles  concerning  affairs  no  longer  of 
interest  to  man,  as  he  will  of  the  people  and  of 
their  institutions,  of  the  real  political  issues  of 
moment,  and  of  the  constitutional  development 
of  the  republic,  with  its  written  law  adapting 
itself  so  wonderfully  to  the  conditions  arising 
from  time  to  time.  McMaster  has  aimed  at  it, 
but  he  does  not  seem  to  be  able  to  discriminate 
accurately  among  a  mass  of  authorities.     Von 

i88 


The   Diversions  of  a  Book-looer 

Hoist  presents  an  example  of  the  German  pro- 
fessor attempting  to  evolve  a  camel  out  of  his 
own  consciousness,  and  he  is  blinded  to  every- 
thing but  the  one  burning  problem  of  slavery. 
He,  also,  like  McMaster,  pays  too  much  attention 
to  the  contemporaneous  expressions  of  politicians 
and  newspapers,  and  does  not  deal  sufficiently 
with  the  forces  behind  them.  The  current  trans- 
lation of  Von  Hoist  is  enough  to  discourage  any 
reader.  One  or  two  blunders  may  suffice  as  il- 
lustrations of  the  translator's  incapacity.  The 
learned  German,  with  his  customary  contempt 
for  all  who  did  not  agree  with  his  views,  saw  fit 
to  refer  to  Chief -Justice  Thompson,  of  Pennsyl- 
vania, as  "this  obscure  worthy,"  and  the  trans- 
lator's version  is,  "This  dark,  worthy  man!"^ 
One  would  infer  that  the  distinguished  lawyer 
(who  was  "obscure"  because  Mr.  Von  Hoist,  far 
away  in  his  distant  university,  had  never  heard 
of  him)  was  what  was  known  in  the  pre-Rebellion 
days  as  a  "  Black  Republican,"  whereas  he  was 
a  violent  Democrat.  The  reference  to  "the 
war  of  the  revolution  of  Louis  XIV."  (volume 
ii.,  p.  272)  is  distinctly  nonsensical.  If  some 
judicious  person,  with  leisure,  good  taste,  and 
an  accurate  knowledge  of  the  German  tongue, 
would  take  the  time  and  the  trouble  to  eliminate 

*  Von  Hoist,  ii.,  560. 
189 


The   Diversions  of   a   Book-looer 

about  three-fifths  of  Von  Hoist's  tedious  details, 
and  to  concentrate  into  two  volumes  the  valu- 
able residuum  of  truth,  the  result  would  be  wor- 
thy of  preservation. 

If  Alexander  Johnston  had  not  been  driven  to 
an  early  grave  by  the  grinding  of  poverty  and 
the  struggle  for  a  meagre  livelihood,  drilling  un- 
sympathetic lads  in  the  elements  of  history, 
he  might  have  put  forth  a  complete  work  which 
would  surely  have  surpassed  all  its  predecessors. 
There  is  another,  but  as  he  is  alive,  I  am  thank- 
ful to  say,  toiling  in  the  field  of  education  and 
deservedly  honored  as  a  teacher  and  as  a  man 
of  letters,  I  will  not  name  him.  Perhaps  he  is 
even  better  fitted  for  the  task  than  Johnston 
was,  for  he  has  the  charm  of  style  which  makes 
even  the  dry  details  interesting  to  the  ordinary 
reader.  He  has  given  us  a  history,  but  the 
scheme  of  it  compelled  him  to  condense  it  so 
closely  that  it  is  popular  rather  than  scholarly. 
How  he  ever  did  it  at  all,  with  all  his  manifold 
occupations,  I  cannot  comprehend.  Were  I  a 
plutocrat,  instead  of  establishing  libraries  to 
supply  casual  books  for  indifferent  readers  in 
ungrateful  hamlets,  I  would  organize  my  favorite 
historical  writer  into  a  corporation,  unlimited, 
and  endow  him  in  perpetuity,  so  that  he  might 
be  free  to  do  historical  work  and  nothing  else. 


X 

Of  Grangerizing,  or  extra-illustration. 

A  LOVELY  woman,  in  a  becoming  gown,  said 
to  me  one  day  when  she  was  scanning  the 
bookshelves,  while  the  maid  was  arranging  the 
tea-table,  "What  is  that  fat  book?"  "It  is  an 
extra  -  illustrated  book,"  I  replied,  sententious- 
ly.  "And  what  is  an  extra-illustrated  book?" 
she  sweetly  inquired.  I  gathered  up  such  rem- 
nants of  my  mind  as  were  accessible  after  this 
naive  deliverance,'and  answered,  with  hesitation, 
"  It  is  a  book — which  is  extra-illustrated." 

No  doubt  I  might  well  have  told  her  that  it 
was  a  charming  thing  of  uncertain  worth,  some- 
thing strangely  attractive,  generally  clad  in  a 
pretty  dress,  an  object  of  fond  pursuit,  not 
always  worth  pursuing;  but  then  she  might 
have  thought — yet,  as  I  did  not  say  it,  there  was 
no  harm  done.  She  seemed  to  be  entirely  satis- 
fied, and  turned  the  conversation  to  the  subject 
of  the  cultivation  of  roses,  about  which  I  have 
no  knowledge  whatsoever. 

I  suppose  I  might  have  said  that  it  was  a 
191 


The  Dicersions  of  a  Book-locer 

"privately  illustrated  book,"  for  that  is  what 
Mr.  Daniel  M.  Tredwell  calls  it  in  his  Monograph. 
"What  I  mean  by  privately  illustrated  books," 
he  says,  "is  books  in  which  prints  are  inserted 
which  do  not  belong  to  the  book,  but  which 
are  pertinent  to  the  subject  treated."  I  un- 
derstand what  he  means,  although  he  does  not 
include  autographs  and  autograph  letters,  which 
often  count  for  as  much  as  the  portraits.  The 
Monograph  has  much  pleasant  information  scat- 
tered through  its  pages,  but  it  was  written 
carelessly,  and  it  contains  some  strange  con- 
fessions as  well  as  some  remarkable  assertions. 
For  example,  it  tells  us  that  "  the  first  book  ever 
illustrated  was  by  James  Granger,"  which  is 
startling  at  first  blush,  but  which  we  know  was  a 
slip  of  the  pen.  I  enjoy  my  copy  greatly,  as 
well  as  the  supplemental  articles  in  the  Book- 
Lover. 

Almost  everybody  remembers  that  James 
Granger,  the  vicar  of  Shiplake,  is  the  father  and 
patron  saint  of  all  extra-illustfators  or  private 
illustrators,  whichever  phrase  may  be  preferred. 
He  has  been  eulogized  and  execrated,  admired 
and  abused,  but  I  think  that  the  abuse  and  the 
execration  are  unjust.  The  principal  cause  of 
complaint  against  the  practice  of  Grangerization, 
or  Grangerizing,  so  -  called,  is  that  its  victims 
habitually  destroy  valuable  books  in  order  to 

192 


The   Dioersions  of  a   Book-louer 

extract  the  prints  and  the  portraits.*  It  may 
have  been  necessary  to  resort  to  this  horrible 
method  of  collection  in  the  early  days,  but  I 
doubt  whether  any  one  but  a  novice  would  now 
be  guilty  of  such  atrocious  book-murder.  There 
are  so  many  print-sellers  who  will  supply  the 
demand  adequately  that  it  is  only  a  question 
of  money ;  and  it  costs  more  to  buy  books  with 
fine  prints  in  them  than  to  purchase  the  prints 
themselves  from  the  dealers.  I  found  a  de- 
lightful mine  of  portraits  in  Stockholm,  and  I 
dare  not  disclose  what  I  discovered  in  London. 
We  often  encounter  books  with  a  stupid  text 
but  excellent  engravings ;  to  despoil  and  mutilate 
such  worthless  volumes  is  surely  praiseworthy. 
On  the  whole,  the  Grangerite  of  this  century  is 
a  respectable  person  and  no  piratical  purloiner 
of  portraits. 

There  is  much  careless  talk  about  books  of 
this  class,  and  most  of  it  is  based  upon  a  lack 
of  knowledge.  I  was  astonished  to  read  in  a 
recent  volume  of  essays  this  declaration : 

"  It  is  not  so  very  many  years  since  it  was  true  that 
several  of  the  highest  prices  paid  in  the  country  were 
secured  for  what  are  called  extra-illustrated  books,  in 
which  hundreds  of  plates,  many  of  them  rare  and  cost- 

'  Vide  Locker- Lampson  concerning  James  Gibbs:  "Un- 
compromising book-collectors  have  branded  my  poor  friend 
as  a  book-ghoul,  a  reptile  who  regards  title-page  and  colo- 
phon as  his  natural  prey." 

13  193 


The  Diversions   of  a   Book-looer 

ly,  had  been  inserted.  But  this  sort  of  book-embeUish- 
ment  has  gone  into  deserved  decline.  It  is  a  fashion 
true  book-lovers  are  glad  to  see  go  out.  In  order  to 
make  these  books,  it  was  necessary  to  mutilate,  or  de- 
stroy altogether,  many  other  books.  It  was  a  barbar- 
ous custom,  unworthy  of  any  one  who  truly  loved 
books.  For  a  copy  of  Irving's  Washington,  extended 
in  this  manner  to  ten  volumes,  with  one  thousand  one 
hundred  plates,  the  sum  of  $2000  was  paid  in  1886. 
The  same  work  would  now  sell  for  less.  Francis's  Old 
New  York  once  sold  for  even  more ;  but  this  book  had 
two  thousand  five  hundred  plates  inserted.  In  the 
auction-room  to-day  it  would  awaken  moderate  inter- 
est. Collectors  who  brought  these  books  together  were, 
in  truth,  vandals,  or,  rather,  they  were  like  the  early 
popes  and  princes  of  Italy  by  whom,  and  not  by  the 
vandals,  were  destroyed  the  architectural  monuments 
of  Rome." 

This  is  a  mistaken  and  superficial  view,  and 
it  would  be  difficult  to  compress  more  error  in 
so  small  a  compass.  It  is  perhaps  sufficient  to 
join  issue  with  this  essayist  by  interposing  a 
specific  denial  of  each  and  every  allegation. 
One  of  our  excellent  magazines  has  gently  but 
effectively  demonstrated  his  inaccuracies  and 
mistakes.* 

The  fashion  is  not  going  out,  and  the  custom 
is  not  barbarous  when  followed  by  persons  of 
reasonable  intelligence,  possessing  a  little  more 
judgment  than  that  of  a  child  tearing  pictures 

'  The  Critic,  July,  1902. 
194 


The   Diuersions  of   a  Book-looer 

out  of  picture-books.  Prices  are  not  decreasing, 
although  much  depends  on  the  kind  of  book, 
the  taste  and  experience  of  the  illustrator,  and 
the  rarity  of  the  prints  and  autographs.  We 
shall  have  a  word  about  prices  later  on.  I 
regretted  very  much  to  find  Mr.  J.  H.  Slater  in- 
dulging in  remarks  almost  as  unjustifiable  as 
those  which  I  have  quoted,  for  he  surely  ought 
to  know  better. 

It  is,  of  course,  a  delightful  thing  to  inlay  the 
plates  to  size,  but  I  believe  that  the  task  of 
collecting  them  and  arranging  them  is  the  chief 
pleasure,  and  that  one  may  do  well  to  send  them 
to  the  skilled  workmen  for  the  mechanical  part 
of  the  business ;  otherwise  time  is  wasted  which 
might  better  be  devoted  to  other  purposes. 

It  may  have  been  different  in  Granger's  day, 
which  was  not  so  very  long  ago,  for  he  died  in 
1776.  I  admire  the  title  of  his  first  and  most 
conspicuous  work,  for  it  is  charmingly  diffuse  and 
voluminous.  They  had  so  much  leisure  in  the 
eighteenth  century  that  they  elaborated  their 
title-pages.  I  can  imagine  Harvey  of  Harper 
&  Brothers'  slashing  such  a  title  as  that  of 
Granger's  first  work:  ''Biographical  History  of 
England,  from  Egbert  the  Great  to  the  Revolution, 
consisting  of  Characters  dispersed  in  different 
Classes,  and  adapted  to  a  Methodical  Catalogue  of 
Engraved  British  Heads.     Intended  as  an  Essay 

195 


The  Dioersions   of  a  Book-lotJer 

towards  reducing  our  Biography  to  a  System,  and 
a  help  to  the  knowledge  of  Portraits;  with  a  variety 
of  Anecdotes  and  Memoirs  of  a  great  number  of 
persons  not  to  be  found  in  any  other  Biographical 
Work.  With  a  preface,  showing  the  utility  of  a 
collection  of  Engraved  Portraits  to  supply  the  de- 
fect, and  answer  the  various  purposes  of  Medals." 
This  much  be-titled  affair  originally  appeared  in 
1769,  and  later  (1775)  in  two  quarto  volumes, 
but  we  usually  encounter  the  four- volume  octavo 
or  the  six- volume  octavo  edition  of  later  years. 
We  read  with  a  sigh  of  regret  that  before 
Granger's  book  came  out  in  1769  "five  shillings 
was  considered  a  liberal  price  by  collectors  for 
any  EngHsh  portrait."  Oh,  for  the  days  of 
"  auld  lang  syne"! 

Wc  who  humbly  follow  Granger  must  give  him 
our  cordial  regard.  He  had  his  vein  of  humor, 
as  we  may  discern  by  the  perusal  of  the  dedica- 
tion of  his  sermon  on  The  Nature  and  Extent  of 
Industry,  preached  before  the  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury  in  the  parish  of  Shiplake,  July  4, 
1775 — a  sort  of  anticipatory  Fourth  -  of  -  Jul}^ 
oration — which  reads:  "To  the  inhabitants  of 
the  parish  of  Shiplake,  who  neglect  the  service  of 
the  Church,  and  spend  the  Sabbath  in  the  worst 
kind  of  idleness,  this  plain  sermon  which  they 
never  heard,  and  probably  will  never  read,  is  in- 
scribed by  their  sincere  well-wisher  and  faithful 

196 


The   Diuersions  of  a  Book-looer 

minister,  J.  G."  I  am  indebted  for  this  ref- 
erence to  the  brief  but  pleasant  sketch  of  the 
founder  of  extra-illustration  contributed  by  Mr. 
Thompson  Cooper  to  the  Dictionary  of  National 
Biography. 

We  were  speaking  a  little  while  ago  about 
prices.  It  is  true  that  they  are  advancing,  yet 
they  seldom  equal  the  cost  of  actual  production. 
Accursed  be  the  man  who,  after  he  has  had  a 
year  or  more  of  happiness  in  gathering  the 
materials  for  his  book,  his  portraits,  his  auto- 
graphs, his  choice  engravings,  and  has  had  it 
dressed  in  delightful  garb  by  his  favorite  binder, 
pauses  to  reckon  up  the  cost  and  to  wonder 
what  it  will  bring  when  it  is  knocked  down  by 
Bangs  &  Co.*  at  one  of  their  oft-recurring  sales. 
If  he  can  devote  himself  to  such  a  sordid  oc- 
cupation as  counting  the  items  of  expenditure, 
he  may  as  well  make  up  his  mind  that  his 
financial  profit  will  be  insignificant.  He  may  be 
reasonably  certain  that  he  will  never  receive 
any  sum  approaching  what  he  paid  out.  He 
must,  however,  be  an  unworthy  and  poor- 
spirited  collector  who  spends  his  time  in  mer- 
cenary reflections  about  prices.  It  is  pleasant, 
nevertheless,  to  know  that  our  libeller  of  extra- 
illustrated    books    is    wrong    about    them.     In 

'  It  is  not  easy  to  realize  that  there  will  be  no  more 
"  Bangs  Sales." 

197 


The   DiDcrsions  of  a  Book-looer 

1856  Lilly's  copy  of  Granger's  History,  includ- 
ing Noble's  continuation,  with  more  than  thir- 
teen hundred  portraits,  bound  in  twenty-seven 
volumes,  imperial  quarto,  brought  only  £-\2, 
and  Joseph  Willis's  copy,  with  more  than  three 
thousand  portraits,  bound  in  nineteen  folio  vol- 
umes, brought  ;^3S  105.  The  last-mentioned  set 
cost  its  former  owner  over  £300.  To  -  day  it 
would  undoubtedly  bring — but  it  would  be  use- 
less to  guess  at  the  figures.  Any  dealer  of  ex- 
perience—  Sotheran  or  Wheeler,  of  London,  or 
Smith  or  Richmond,  of  New  York — will  tell  you 
that  the  auction  price  would  run  into  the  thou- 
sands, although  neither  of  these  books  would  be 
as  attractive  in  this  country  as  the  Washington 
or  the  Francis.  If  any  one  wishes  to  know  more 
about  the  matter  of  prices,  let  him  consult  the 
English  catalogues.  One  is  before  me,  issued  a 
few  months  ago  by  Denham.  Here  is  a  copy 
of  Gray's  poems,  with  memoirs — one  volume, 
George  Daniel's  copy — at  £21^;  and  one  of 
Horace  Walpole's  books.  Letters  and  Memoirs 
of  the  Chevalier  d'Eon  (seven  portraits  and  auto- 
graph letters  of  the  epicene  Chevalier),  £^'j. 
The  books  of  Augustin  Daly,  which  were  mostly 
made  up  for  him  by  others,  commanded  high 
figures  at  the  auction  only  three  or  four  years 
ago,  but  the  sale  was  not  well  advertised  and  the 
catalogue  was  deficient;   they  are  being  now 

198 


The    Dioersions  of  a  Book-looer 

resold  at  an  advance.  If  that  copy  of  Old  New 
York  which  sold  in  1879  for  $2070  should  be 
offered  now,  it  would  not  only  awaken  more  than 
"moderate  interest,"  but  would  probably  com- 
mand double  that  sum,  because  it  appeals  to 
the  growing  class  of  wealthy  men  who  take  a 
keen  interest  in  local  history  and  eagerly  gather 
all  that  relates  to  their  favorite  subject.  At  the 
same  time  I  do  not  advise  any  one  to  go  into 
the  business  of  extra-illustration  for  the  sake 
of  possible  pecuniary  gain.  The  man  who  would 
thus  degrade  an  innocent  hobby-chase  deserves 
to  fall  into  the  clutches  of  the  assignee  in  bank- 
ruptcy. 

There  is  nothing  new  in  the  assertion  that  the 
purchased  book  can  never  be  as  precious  to  the 
owner  as  the  one  which  he  himself  constructed, 
if  we  may  use  that  word.  The  proposition 
needs  no  argument  to  support  it;  we  admit  it. 
When  Robert  Ingersoll  said  that  a  certain  per- 
sonage was  the  greatest  lawyer  who  ever  lived, 
some  one  said,  "  You  will  have  trouble  in 
proving  that,"  and  the  colonel  replied,  "  I  do 
not  have  to  prove  it;  he  admits  it  himself." 
There  is  an  individuality  about  our  own  books, 
and  a  pleasant  association  with  every  letter  and 
with  every  print.  It  is  strange  that  the  pri- 
vate illustrator,  toiling  for  his  own  amusement 
and  instruction,  will  almost  invariably  thrust  in 

199 


The  Diversions  of  a  Book-looer 

among  the  goodly  company  of  rare  engravings 
and  choice  etchings  some  wretched  little  news- 
paper portrait  or  clipping  which  is  as  much  out 
of  place  as  one  of  our  street-sweepers  would  be 
in  a  brilliant  drawing-room.  Yet  I  have  done 
the  deed  myself,  and  do  not  know  why  I  did  it ; 
probably  from  sheer  wilfulness. 

There  are  on  the  library  table  two  privately 
illustrated  copies  of  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman's 
Poets  of  America,  to  which  I  beg  leave  to  refer 
because  they  are  examples.  One  copy  was  the 
property  of  the  late  Irving  Browne,  the  accom- 
plished editor  and  writer,  who  was  an  enthusi- 
astic disciple  of  the  Shiplake  parson.  In  1874  he 
printed  An  Account  of  Some  Books  Containing 
Extra  Illustrations  in  a  Private  Library,  limited 
to  twenty -five  copies,  some  containing  illus- 
trations, the  inlaying  by  Trent,  whose  work  is 
superior  to  that  of  the  most  vaunted  English- 
man. It  deals  with  some  eighty  titles,  all  but 
five  of  them  being  books  illustrated  by  Browne 
himself.  He  must  have  been  wonderfully  in- 
dustrious, but  his  copy  of  Stedman  is  curiously 
made  up,  the  portraits  and  other  illustrations 
having  been  taken  from  all  sorts  and  conditions 
of  newspapers,  magazines,  and  even  publishers* 
catalogues,  pasted  upon  inserted  sheets,  or  on 
margins,  or  at  the  ends  of  chapters,  with  only 
two  or  three  items  of  any  appreciable  value. 

200 


The  Diuersions   of  a  Book-looer 

Yet  Browne  evidently  enjoyed  it,  and  he  had 
the  volume  bound  at  the  Club  Bindery  in  "half 
crushed  blue  levant,  gilt  top,"  as  the  sales- 
catalogues  describe  such  things.  I  am  almost 
ashamed  to  confess  that  I  like  it,  but  it  speaks 
to  me  of  the  loving  labor  of  a  charming  author 
and  a  brilliant  man.  I  can  see  him,  in  my 
mind's  eye,  "fussing"  with  it,  as  my  friend  the 
Chief- Justice  of  Arizona  would  say. 

Browne  was  an  enthusiast,  and  we  who  share 
in  his  enthusiasm  can  appreciate  his  verse  on 
"The  Shy  Portraits:  by  a  despised  Grangerite," 
particularly  those  I  venture  to  quote: 

Oh,  why  do  you  elude  me  so. 

Ye  portraits,  whom  so  long  I've  sought; 

That  somewhere  ye  exist,  I  know, 

Indifferent,  good,  and  good  for  naught. 

This  country's  overrun  with  "Grangers" — 
I'm  ignorant  of  their  Christian  names — 

But  my  afflicted  eyes  are  strangers 
To  one  I  want  whom  men  call  James. 

The  other  copy  of  Stedman  was,  I  believe, 
arranged  by  a  man  of  some  literary  distinction. 
He  has  a  singular  mania  for  building  up  books 
and,  after  having  them  handsomely  bound,  sell- 
ing them  through  professional  dealers.  I  hope 
that  he  does  it  at  a  profit,  and,  judging  by  what 
I  have  paid  for  some  of  them,  I  feel  quite  confi- 

20I 


The  Diocrsions   of  a  Book-loocr 

dent  that  he  is  not  a  loser;  but  one  can  never 
tell.  It  contains  sixty-one  portraits  and  plates, 
almost  all  of  them  steel  engravings,  and  it  is  as 
dignified  as  Browne's  is  the  reverse.  Yet,  with 
all  its  scrappy  little  cuts,  I  am  much  fonder  of 
the  Browne  book. 

One  commanding  error  which  is  commonly 
committed  by  the  extra-illustrator  is  the  over- 
doing of  it.  He  is  seldom  able  to  limit  him- 
self to  the  addition  of  matters  which  belong 
naturally  to  the  text.  If  in  a  Life  of  Andrew 
Jackson  the  author  makes  casual  reference  to 
Oliver  Cromwell,  in  goes  a  portrait  of  the  Pro- 
tector; or  if  there  is  an  allusion  to  George 
III.,  there  is  a  representation  of  the  plump 
countenance  of  that  monarch.  I  recall  that 
I  utterly  spoiled  a  good  edition  of  Edward 
Everett's  Washington  by  overloading  it  with  two 
hundred  and  sixty  portraits,  plates,  and  facsim- 
iles, to  say  nothing  of  valuable  autographs  which 
might  much  better  have  been  suffered  to  pos- 
sess an  independence  of  their  own ;  and  a  harm- 
less copy  of  Authors  at  Home  was  overburdened 
with  three  hundred  and  fifty-nine  portraits  and 
views  and  three  hundred  and  seventy-five  auto- 
graph letters.  I  mention  this  with  regret,  as  an 
instructive  warning  to  the  innocent  and  unwary. 
There  is  significance  in  what  the  experienced 
bibliographer    and    collector    John   H.   V.   Ar- 

202 


The  Dioersions  of  a  Book-loucr 

nold  wrote  to  me  concerning  one  of  my  mon- 
strosities: "If  you  can  succeed  in  making  up 
your  mind  at  some  future  time  that  you  have 
gathered  enough  materials  to  satisfy  you  and 
bind  up  your  bantling,  you  will  be  possessed  of 
courage  enough  to  do  almost  anything.  To  one 
who  really  becomes  interested  in  the  'business,' 
it  is  the  most  fascinating  of  occupations  to 
'extend'  a  good  book,  but  it  is  hard  to  say, 
'Hold,  enough!'" 

I  have  elsewhere  recorded  my  impressions  in 
regard  to  autograph  letters  in  extra-illustration, 
and  I  repeat  that  they  should  be  used  sparingly. 
If  one  merely  employs  a  text  to  accompany  an 
autographic  collection,  a  complete  "set"  of  some 
class  of  distinguished  persons,  the  case  is  dif- 
ferent. Taking,  for  example,  the  extraordinary 
books  which  the  New  York  Public  Library, 
through  the  liberality  of  Mr.  John  S.  Kennedy, 
acquired  some  time  ago  from  Dr.  Thomas  Addis 
Emmet,  and  particularly  the  volumes  devoted 
to  the  Signers  to  the  Declaration  of  Indepen- 
dence, we  must  observe  that  they  are  really  not 
Sanderson' s  Lives  illustrated,  but  a  pre-eminent 
collection  of  the  autographic  records  of  the 
signers,  of  portraits,  views,  and  incidental  illus- 
trations, to  which  the  interwoven  pages  of  the 
biographies  are  a  comparatively  unimportant 
incident.  The  trustees  of  the  library  have 
203 


The  Diversions   of  a  Book-looer 

wisely  printed  a  detailed  catalogue  of  the  Em- 
met Collection,  limited,  I  regret  to  say,  to  one 
hundred  copies,  although,  perhaps,  I  should  be 
selfishly  glad  because,  through  the  kindness  of 
one  of  the  board,  I  am  fortunate  enough  to  own 
a  copy.  In  sadness  and  despair,  after  gloating 
over  the  astonishing  list  of  treasures  described 
in  the  concise  fashion  of  the  expert,  I  am  forced 
to  exclaim  to  myself  and  to  my  fellow-lovers  of 
choice  Americana,  in  the  words  of  Joey  Ladle, 
reported  in  No  Thoroughfare,  "Arter  that,  ye 
may  all  on  ye  go  to  bed." 

Enthusiasts  are  not  to  be  discouraged,  for 
we  may  have  our  own  beloved  possessions,  dear 
to  us,  although  perhaps  not  to  be  compared  with 
the  stores  which  our  superiors  have  gathered. 
We  are  not  despondent. 


XI 


Of  authors  at  work;  their  blunders  and  their  confi- 
dences; with  some  reflections  about  style. 

THE  habits  of  authors  at  their  work  seem  to 
possess  an  interest  for  readers,  and  many 
chapters  of  literary  gossip  have  been  devoted  to 
describing  the  methods  and  customs  of  the 
makers  of  books.  Sometimes  the  details  appear 
to  be  trivial,  but  there  is  a  fascination  in  ob- 
serving the  human  animal  performing  his  little 
tasks  akin  to  that  which  leads  the  bird  -  lover 
to  study  patiently  the  genesis  of  the  blue -jay 
brood  or  of  the  robin  family,  and  the  Thompson- 
Setons  to  dwell  affectionately  with  the  sand-hill 
stag  and  the  grizzly  bear.  Authors  are  usually 
more  communicative  about  themselves  than  the 
Wahbs  and  Kootenay  rams  of  the  Wild  West, 
and  the  natural  history  of  the  race  may  easily 
be  investigated  in  the  comfortable  comers  of 
the  library. 

Should  a  writer  mature  his  thoughts  before 
committing  them  to  paper?  It  is  doubtless  a 
question  of  temperament.     Schopenhauer  says: 

205 


The  Dioersions   of  a  Book-looer 

''There  are  three  kinds  of  authors — those  who 
write  without  thinking;  they  write  from  a  full 
memory,  from  reminiscences ;  it  may  be  straight 
out  of  other  people's  books.  Then  come  those 
who  do  their  thinking  while  they  are  writing; 
last  of  all,  those  authors  who  think  before  they 
begin  to  write.  They  are  rare."  Comte,  we 
are  told,  thought  everything  out  fully  before 
writing,  while  Darwin  was  accustomed  to  dash 
off  page  after  page  hurriedly,  even  abbreviating 
his  words,  and  he  trusted  to  later  revision.  In 
poor  Prescott's  case,  that  hard  piece  of  bread 
thrown  by  a  careless  Harvard  undergraduate 
compelled  him  to  run  over  the  whole  of  an  in- 
tended chapter  in  his  mind  before  putting  his 
pen,  or,  to  be  precise,  his  agate  or  ivory  stylus, 
upon  the  sheets  of  carbonated  paper  which  he 
was  obliged  to  use.  The  writing,  he  sa3^s,  "was 
an  effort  of  memory  rather  than  of  composition." 
It  does  not  matter  so  much  how  it  is  done  if  it 
is  done  well;  but  in  certain  fields  of  literary 
labor  it  is  wise  to  formulate  the  expression  of 
thought  before  inscribing  it  on  paper.  What- 
ever may  be  the  shortcomings  of  Prescott  as  a 
historian,  judged  by  the  standards  of  to-day,  he 
had  an  attractive  style,  and  he  wisely  rejected 
the  advice  of  Thierry  to  resort  to  dictation.  It 
may  be  that  the  Gallic  nature  of  the  blind  histo- 
rian of  the  Norman  Conquest  was  too  impatient 

206 


The   Dioersions   of  a   Book-looer 

to  endure  the  toil  which  Prescott  was  willing  to 
undergo  in  order  to  achieve  his  results.  We  suf- 
fer in  these  days  from  the  tempting  plague  of  the 
stenographer  and  the  typewriter.  Little  that  is 
deserving  of  preservation  is  produced  except  by 
the  author's  own  hand,  which  corrects  the  stag- 
gerings  of  the  mind  and  is  a  foe  to  fatal  diffuse- 
ness.  When  the  dictator  rambles  along  conver- 
sationally, deluging  his  scribe  with  slush,  he  loses 
the  concentration  which  is  a  mark  of  wisdom.  In 
the  haste  of  modem  days  the  innate  laziness  of 
the  author  naturally  leads  him  to  avail  of  the 
easy  method  of  talking  to  a  sort  of  machine,  and 
relying  upon  his  own  judgment  in  the  revision 
of  the  notes  when  they  are  put  before  him. 
He  does  not,  however,  correct,  excise,  or  prune 
as  he  should,  because  he  is  indolent  and  is  dis- 
posed to  accept  the  first  efforts  of  his  mind  as 
final  and  conclusive. 

Wordsworth  never  wrote  down  as  he  com- 
posed, but  composed  walking,  riding,  or  lying 
in  bed,  and,  after  he  had  completed  his  work, 
wrote  it  out  with  his  own  hand.  Southey,  on 
the  contrary,  true  literary  man  as  he  was,  sat 
at  his  desk  and  penned  his  thoughts  as  they 
shaped  themselves  in  his  mind.  Every  man 
has  his  own  humor  about  such  matters.  A  dear 
friend  used  to  excite  his  faculties  by  copious 
libations  of  hot  tea,  preferable  to  more  potent 
207 


The   Dioersions  of  a  Book-looer 

potations  as  a  stimulant  to  the  sluggish  brain. 
Tobacco  is  for  some  an  encourager  of  composi- 
tion — "  sublime  tobacco,  which,  from  east  to 
west,  cheers  the  tar's  labor  or  the  Turkman's 
rest."  Carlyle's  pipe  is  a  proverb.  We  find  it 
hard  to  forgive  Cowper  for  saying  of  the  stimu- 
lating plant : 

Pernicious  weed,  whose  scent  the  fair  annoys. 

Unfriendly  to  society's  chief  joys, 

Thy  worst  effect  is  banishing  for  hours 

The  sex  whose  presence  civiHzes  ours; 

Thou  art,  indeed,  the  drug  the   gardener  wants 

To  poison  vermin  that  infest  his  plants.^ 

In  these  more  enUghtened  days,  when  the 
cigarette  is  not  distained  by  attractive  damsels, 
and  even  the  cigar  is  sometimes  accepted  by 
"the  sex  whose  presence  civilizes  ours,"  notably 
in  the  case  of  a  lady  of  my  acquaintance  of 
charming  manners  and  cultivated  literary  taste, 
we  can  afford  to  smile  at  such  remarks  con- 
cerning that  magic  plant  whereof  Charles  Lamb 

said: 

For  thy  sake,  tobacco,  I 
Would  do  anything  but  die.^ 

Dickens  has  been  presented  to  us  by  his 
chosen  biographer,  John  Forster,  in  an  inad- 
equate and  unsatisfactory  way.     It  is  not  prof- 

'  Cowper,  Conv.,  251  ^"  Farewell  to  Tobacco." 

208 


The  DiDersions  of  a   Book-looer 

itable  to  reflect  much  about  the  mistakes  of 
that  Life  which  ought  to  have  been  so  precious 
to  Dickens-lovers.  I  am  discontented  with  even 
my  extra-illustrated  copy,  and  in  the  privacy 
of  the  library  I  sometimes  shake  my  fist  at  it. 
It  is  possibly  true  that  an  intimate  acquaintance 
with  the  subject  is  a  drawback  to  a  biographer, 
and  that  the  records  of  a  great  man  should  be 
written  by  one  who  never  knew  him  and  never 
saw  him;  the  friend  is  not  always  capable  of 
occupying  a  proper  point  of  view.  Forster 
tells  us  that  the  beloved  novelist  carried  with 
him  his  accompaniments  of  work  in  the  shape 
of  "certain  quaint  Httle  bronze  figures  that 
stood  upon  his  desk  and  were  as  much  needed 
for  the  easy  flow  of  his  writing  as  blue  ink  or 
quill  pens,"  which  he  much  affected.  There  was 
a  group  representing  a  duel  between  a  couple  of 
very  fat  toads,  and  the  figure  of  a  dog-fancier 
with  a  profusion  of  little  dogs  stuck  under  his 
arms  and  into  his  pockets  and  everywhere 
where  little  dogs  could  possibly  be  insinuated. 
Sometimes  when  he  was  toiling  very  hard  over 
a  book  he  would  plough  through  snow  half  a 
foot  deep  for  two  hours,  because  he  had  a 
theory  that  he  must  spend  the  same  amount  of 
time  in  walking  as  he  did  in  writing.  He  wrote 
usually  between  breakfast  and  luncheon.  Con- 
trary to  the  popular  impression,  he  did  not 
14  209 


The  Dicersions  of  a  Book-looer 

write  rapidly,  and  his  manuscripts  show  that 
he  made  countless  corrections.  I  have  always 
had  a  sincere  affection  for  Charles  Reade  be- 
cause "he  held  Charles  Dickens  to  be  the  great- 
est Englishman  of  the  century,"  and  never 
hesitated  to  express  his  indignation  at  "a 
system  which  has  choked  the  peerage  with 
third  -  rate  lawyers  and  tenth  -  rate  politicians, 
while  it  has  almost  without  exception  excluded 
genius."  I  am  not  convinced  that  Dickens 
would  have  gained  anything  by  being  dubbed  a 
lord,  and  I  doubt  if  his  fame  would  have  been 
more  lasting  if  he  had  been  handed  down  to 
posterity  with  the  title  of  Baron  Chuzzlewit  or 
Viscount  Copperfield.  If  it  be  true  that  Kipling 
has  refused  a  title,  I  congratulate  him  on  the 
good  sense  which  has  enrolled  him  with  such 
distinguished  personages  as  William  Words- 
worth, John  Stuart  Mill,  and  William  Ewart 
Gladstone. 

I  doubt  if  many  people  at  this  day,  unless  it 
may  be  a  few  of  quite  mature  years,  spend  any 
time  over  the  works  of  that  earnest  and  strenuous 
person,  Charles  Reade ;  yet  they  might  do  worse, 
for  he  was  a  manly  and  impressive  gentleman, 
thoroughly  in  earnest,  and  possessed  of  sound 
training.  He  had  a  vigorous  way  of  expressing 
his  opinions.  He  said  of  Mark  Twain:  "An 
American  humorist,  and  really  has  much  humor. 

2IO 


The  Diuersions  of  a   Book-locer 

But  oh!  his  speech!  Knock  a  macaw's  head  on 
an  iron  rail!"  One  may  not  concur  entirely 
with  his  remarks  concerning  a  distinguished 
personage  of  the  stage:  "Ellen  Terry  is  a  very 
charming  actress.  I  see  through  and  through 
her.  Yet  she  pleases  me,  all  the  same.  Little 
duck!"  One  would  scarcely  dare  to  call  Miss 
Terry  a  " little  duck"  in  these  days.  She  seems 
to  deserve  more  dignified  commendation. 

Reade  breakfasted  at  nine,  began  writing  at 
ten,  paused  at  two,  threw  his  large  sheets  of 
drab-colored  paper  on  the  floor  as  fast  as  they 
were  filled,  had  his  maid-servant  gather  them 
up,  and  then  sent  them  to  a  copyist.  He  took 
no  luncheon,  dined  late,  and  usually  spent  his 
evening  at  the  theatre.  His  novels  seem  al- 
ways to  have  been  written  with  the  stage  in 
view.  His  famous  scrap  -  books,  industriously 
filled  with  all  sorts  of  newspaper  clippings, 
which  he  used  freely,  afforded  a  never-ending 
supply  of  facts. 

Sir  Walter  Scott  wrote  in  a  delightful  library, 
and  had  his  books  of  reference  close  at  hand. 
When  Tom  Moore  said  to  him  that  the  manual 
labor  alone  of  copying  out  his  works  seemed 
enough  to  have  occupied  all  the  time  he  had 
taken  in  producing  them,  Scott  replied:  "I 
write  very  quick;  that  comes  of  being  brought 
up  under  an  attorney."     But  everybody  knows 

211 


The  Dicersions   of  a  Book-loocr 

that  he  dictated  a  considerable  part  of  the  novels. 
Scott  wrote  chiefly  in  the  morning,  from  five 
or  six  o'clock  until  breakfast-time.  When  he 
was  pressed  with  work  he  would  breakfast  at 
nine,  idle  until  about  eleven,  and  then  write 
energetically  until  two  in  the  afternoon. 

Not  long  ago  some  newspaper  writer  asserted 
that  Carlyle  is  no  longer  read,  and  that  there  is 
little  or  no  demand  for  his  pubhshed  works.  I 
cannot  believe  that  it  is  true,  but  on  the  whole 
it  might  reasonably  be  anticipated,  for  there  is 
little  about  his  creed  or  his  philosophy  v/hich 
should  give  them  immortality.  His  history,  in 
the  words  of  the  North  American  Review,  is 
mostly  "  ground-and-lof ty  tumbling."  His  in- 
tellectual processes  seemed  to  operate  in  a 
difficult,  clumsy  fashion;  his  mental  hinges 
creaked  as  he  worked,  and  he  struggled  hard 
to  give  the  impression  of  power  by  the  device 
of  a  rugged  and  graceless  method  of  expression. 
That  rough  and  bumpy  style  was  an  affectation ; 
he  did  not  begin  in  that  way,  as  his  early  essays 
show.  It  was  as  much  assumed  as  Sam  Slick's 
dialect  or  the  spelling  of  Ward,  Nasby,  and 
Bilhngs,  or  the  slang  of  Chimmie  Fadden. 

I  hope  that  I  may  be  pardoned  for  my  pro- 
found dislike  of  Carlyle' s  style — which  has  been 
the  subject  of  so  much  debate— because  one  who 
loved  him  much  has  said:  "If  we  were  to  judge 

212 


The   Dioersions   of   a   Book-loocr 

him  by  one  of  his  own  summary  processes,  and 
deny  him  the  benefit  of  his  notions  of  what  is  ex- 
pedient and  advisable,  how  would  he  exculpate 
this  style,  in  which  he  denounces  so  many 
'  shams,'  of  being  itself  a  sham? — of  being  affect- 
ed, unnecessary,  and  ostentatious? — a  jargon  got 
up  to  confound  pretension  with  performance  and 
reproduce  endless  German  talk  under  the  guise 
of  novelty."^ 

Yet  Leigh  Hunt  said  also,  and  I  quote  at 
length  partly  because  of  his  remarks  on  hobbies : 
"  It  has  been  well  said  that,  love  money  as 
people  may,  there  is  generally  something  which 
they  love  better;  some  whim  or  hobby-horse; 
some  enjoyment  or  recreation ;  some  personal 
or  political  or  poetical  predilection;  some  good 
opinion  of  this  or  that  class  of  men ;  some  club  of 
one's  fellows,  or  of  one's  own,  with  a  thousand 
other  somes  and  probabilities.  I  believe  that 
what  Mr.  Carlyle  loves  better  than  his  fault- 
finding, with  all  its  eloquence,  is  the  face  of  any 
human  creature  that  looks  suffering  and  loving 
and  sincere;  and  I  believe,  further,  that  if  the 
fellow-creature  were  suffering  only,  and  neither 
loving  nor  sincere,  but  had  come  to  a  pass  of 
agony  in  this  life  which  put  him  at  the  mercies 
of  some  good  man  for  some  last  help  and  con- 

*  Leigh  Hunt,  Autobiography,  417. 
213 


The   Dioersions  of  a  Book-loDer 

solation  towards  his  grave,  even  at  the  risk  of 
loss  to  repute,  and  a  sure  amount  of  pain  and 
vexation,  that  man,  if  the  groan  reached  him  in 
its  forlomness,  would  be  Thomas  Carlyle."* 

After  that  I  do  not  wonder  that  "Jennie 
kissed  him";  perhaps  she  kissed  him  before  he 
said  it;  it  is  immaterial.  Whether  it  is  all  true 
or  not,  it  shows  what  Hunt  thought  of  Jennie's 
ursine  husband;  but  I  should  be  glad  to  have 
cited  to  me  an  instance  where  Carlyle  ever  put 
himself  to  the  least  inconvenience  to  relieve  a 
suffering  fellow-creature  who  was  neither  loving 
nor  sincere. 

Hunt's  reference  to  "  some  club  of  one's  own  " 
reminds  me  of  those  two  delightful  books  by 
Mr.  Russell  —  A  Club  of  One,  and  In  a  Club 
Corner.  Why  have  they  not  become  famous? 
Because,  I  suppose,  they  do  not  appeal  to  the 
average  man ;  I  am  sorr}'-,  because  I  have  a  high 
regard  for  that  average  man,  and  consider  him 
worthy  of  profound  respect.  I  shall  always  look 
back  with  delight  to  the  day  when  these  volumes 
came  within  my  book-horizon.  I  pity  the  reader 
who  does  not  enjoy  the  quaint  and  chatty  gossip 
of  Mr.  Russell. 

Carlyle  annoyed  his  printers  dreadfully.  He 
wrote  a  hand  as  crabbed  as  his  style,  and  he 

^Autobiography,  417,  418. 
214 


The  Dioersions  of  a  Book-loDer 

corrected  with  a  magnificent  disregard  of  the 
unfortunate  typesetter.  It  is  said  that  he  re- 
vised his  proofs  to  such  an  extent  that  it  was 
easier  to  reset  the  matter  than  to  alter  it.  This 
indicates  an  indecision,  a  variableness  of  dis- 
position, quite  uncharacteristic  of  the  ideal 
Thomas.  Miss  Martineau  tells  this  anecdote  of 
him:  *'One  day  while  in  my  study  I  heard  a 
prodigious  sound  of  laughter  on  the  stairs,  and 
in  came  Carlyle,  laughing  aloud.  He  had  been 
laughing  in  that  manner  all  the  way  from  the 
printing-office  in  Charing  Cross.  He  had  been 
to  the  office  to  urge  the  printer,  and  the  man 
said:  'Why,  sir,  you  really  are  so  very  hard 
upon  us  with  your  corrections;  they  take  so 
much  time,  you  see.'  After  some  remonstrance, 
Carlyle  observed  that  he  had  been  accustomed 
to  do  this  sort  of  thing;  that  he  had  got  works 
printed  in  Scotland,  and — 'Yes,  indeed,  sir,* 
interrupted  the  printer;  'we  are  aware  of  that. 
We  have  a  man  here  from  Edin*blirgh,  and  when 
he  took  up  a  bit  of  your  copy  he  dropped  it  as 
if  he  had  burned  his  fingers,  and  cried  out,  "  Lord 
have  mercy!  Have  you  got  that  man  to  print 
for?  Lord  knows  when  we  shall  get  done  all  his 
corrections."  '" * 

There  can  be  no  sufficient  excuse  for  such 

*  Andrews'  Literary  By-ways,  ifl. 
215 


The   DiDersions   of  a  Book-loDer 

utter  disregard  of  others;  but  Carlyle  seldom 
considered  others  in  comparison  with  himself; 
his  alleged  tenderness  for  human  kind  in  dis- 
tress was  not  exclusive  of  a  more  vigorous 
tenderness  regarding  himself.  He  would  not 
have  laughed  so  heartily  at  the  printer's  tale 
of  woe  if  it  had  concerned  any  one  but 
Thomas  Carlyle.  He  always  appeared  to  me 
to  be  the  most  selfish  literary  person  of  his  cen- 
tury, with  the  possible  exception  of  William 
Hazlitt. 

Speaking  of  Carlyle,  the  Right  Honorable 
Leonard  Courtney,  M.P.,  in  his  address  to  the 
committee  for  the  purchase  of  Carlyle's  house 
at  Chelsea,  thus  expressed  his  views:  "As  a 
husband  he  showed  something  too  much  of  the 
arrogance  and  isolation  of  genius.  In  his  want 
of  sensibility  to  the  wife,  and  in  the  proud  si- 
lences of  the  wife's  life,  you  see  something  more 
interesting,  something  more  attractive,  than  is 
to  be  found  in  any  novel."  I  do  not;  I  fail  to 
see  anything  interesting  or  attractive  in  it ;  I  see 
that  which  makes  me  long  to  arise  and  cry  aloud 
that  the  man  was  a  barbarian.  Ruskin  said  to 
Froude:  "What  can  you  say  of  Carlyle  but 
that  he  was  bom  in  the  clouds  and  struck  by  the 
lightning."  A  man  bom  in  the  clouds  and 
struck  by  lightning,  who  is  persistently  brutal 
to  a  devoted  wife,  is  not  a  pleasant  object  to 
216 


The  Dioersions   of  a  Book-looer 

contemplate.*  If  he  was  really  the  victim  of  an 
electric  bolt,  he  may  be  excused,  on  the  ground 
of  insanity,  for  some  eccentricities;  but  if  he 
himself  had  been  confronted  by  such  a  self-suffi- 
cient snarler  about  trifles,  he  would  have  been 
as  lavish  with  his  vocabulary  of  denunciation  as 
he  was  in  abuse  of  most  of  his  contemporaries. 
In  brief,  he  was  a  rough,  unpleasant,  peasant-bom 
individual,  with  great  capacity  for  scolding  about 
the  things  of  the  world  and  no  capacity  for 
suggesting  any  adequate  remedy  for  the  evils  of 
which  he  complained  so  loudly.  There  is  one 
story  about  Carlyle,  told  by  George  Eliot  in  a 
letter  to  Sara  Hennell,  in  November,  185 1,  which 
goes  far  to  reconcile  me  to  him.  He  was  dis- 
satisfied with  Emerson  because  the  American 
did  not  believe  in  a  devil,  and,  to  convince  the 
transcendental  philosopher  of  his  error,  he  took 
the  amiable  Ralph  through  all  the  horrors  of 
London,  the  gin-shops,  et  quibusdam  aliis,  and 
finally  to  the  House  of  Commons,  plying  him  at 
every  turn  with  the  question,  "Do  you  believe 
in  a  devil  noo?"  I  am  indebted  to  Mr.  J. 
Rogers  Rees^  for  another  anecdote  of  Carlyle, 
and  I  hope  it  is  true.     Meeting  Browning,  and 

* "  He  found  a  remembrance  in  her  Diary  of  the  blue 
marks  which,  in  a  fit  of  passion,  he  had  once  inflicted  on 
her  arms." — My  Releations  with  Carlyle  (Froude),  ii. 

^  The  Brotherhood  of  Letters,  New  York,  1889. 

217 


The  Diuersions  of  a  Book-looer 

wishing  to  say  something  pleasant  about  The 
Ring  and  the  Book,  which  had  recently  appeared, 
he  said:  "It  is  a  wonderful  book,  one  of  the 
most  wonderful  books  ever  written.  I  reread 
it  all  through;  all  made  out  of  an  Old  Bailey 
story  that  might  have  been  told  in  ten  lines, 
and  only  wants  forgetting." 

This  is  an  illustration  of  the  truth  of  what 
Froude  said,  writing  of  his  first  meeting  with 
Carlyle:  "I  saw  then  what  I  saw  soon  after — 
that  no  one  need  look  for  conventional  polite- 
ness from  Carlyle ;  he  would  hear  the  exact  truth 
from  him  and  nothing  else." 

This  matter  of  "telling  the  exact  truth"  has 
always  interested  me  greatly.  I  have  known 
conscientious  men,  and  women  also,  who  prided 
themselves  upon  always  telling  every  one  "the 
truth,"  assuming  it  as  a  virtue,  pluming  them- 
selves about  it,  and  congratulating  themselves 
that  they  are  not  as  others  are.  These  good 
people  do  not  even  pause  to  inquire,  with  Pilate, 
"  What  is  truth?"  nor  do  they  heed  the  words  of 
Montaigne,  "  for  truth  itself  has  not  the  privilege 
to  be  spoken  at  all  times  and  in  all  sorts.  ^ 

They  do  not  need  to  inquire,  I  suppose,  be- 
cause they  are  endowed  by  Providence  with  an 
innate  capacity  for  discerning  truth.     I   have 

*  Book  iii.,  chapter  xiii.,  of  Experience. 
2l8 


The  Dioersions   of  a  Book-looer 

often  wished  that  I  possessed  that  divine  attri- 
bute which  would  enable  me  to  tell  my  neighbor, 
under  all  circumstances,  exactly  what  he  should 
do  or  say  or  think,  and  how  wrong  he  was  about 
everything  which  he  did  or  said  or  thought. 
When  Thales  was  asked  what  was  difficult,  he 
said,  "To  know  one's  self" ;  and  what  was  easy, 
"To  advise  another."*  It  is  an  amusing  and 
familiar  fact  that  nothing  is  given  as  profusely 
as  advice.^  Does  it  ever  dawn  upon  these 
complacent  creatures  that  perhaps  their  con- 
victions may  not  be  better  founded  than 
mine?  Do  they  ever  pause  to  consider  that 
there  is  room  for  difference  of  opinion  about 
"the  truth"?  Their  horizon  of  truth  is  limited 
by  their  own  powers  of  vision;  beyond  that 
there  is  little  worthy  of  a  thought. 

It  is  in  such  conditions  that  what  is  contempt- 
uously termed  by  the  Froudes  of  life  "con- 
ventional politeness"  may  be  invoked  as  a 
protecting  force.  The  phrase  merely  describes 
that  method  of  speech  and  attitude  of  mind 
which  tolerates  one's  fellow-beings  and  grants 
to  them  the  indulgence  of  the  belief  that  perhaps 
the  truth  as  they  see  it  may  be  as  true  as  that 
which  we,  in  our  wisdom,  may  believe  that  we 
alone  are  capable  of  discerning.     The  person 

*  Diogenes  Laertius,  Thales,  ix. 
'  La  Rochefoucauld. 
219 


The  Dioersions   of  a  Book-looer 

who  derides  "conventional  politeness"  is  only- 
arrogant,  vain,  saturated  with  unconscious  con- 
ceit, unable  to  perceive  the  beam  in  his  own  eye, 
and  destined,  as  was  Carlyle,  to  repent  bitterly 
his  consummate  absorption  in  self,  which  made 
him  oblivious  to  the  feelings  of  others  and 
shrouded  his  declining  years  in  a  dark  shadow 
of  well-deserved  remorse. 

It  is  worthy  of  note  that  the  young  people  of 
this  period  are  notably  the  advisers  of  mankind. 
No  doubt  that  fact  has  been  observed  by  the 
"old  fogies"  of  many  centuries;  but  every- 
one must  recognize  the  enormous  growth  of  the 
young  person  in  importance,  particularly  the 
young  person  of  social  eminence.  The  news- 
paper is  responsible  for  it,  devoting  columns  to 
the  doings  of  the  young  persons — their  games, 
their  dances,  their  receptions,  their  weddings. 
It  is  all  confusing  to  the  mind  of  the  commencing 
veteran,  who  is  bewildered  when  he  encounters 
a  half-page  given  to  the  marriage  of  two  adoles- 
cents, with  portraits  of  the  victims,  while  one 
of  the  most  serious  political  questions  of  the 
day  obtains  but  half  a  column,  grudgingly 
bestowed.     Eheu,  Eheu,  Postume,  lahuntur  anni! 

If  a  man  cannot  put  his  thoughts  in  tolerably 
decent  shape  before  he  sends  them  to  the  printer 
he  must  be  extremely  uncertain  in  his  mental 
operations.     Dickens  coiTccted  his  manuscript 

220 


The   Dioersions   of   a  Book-looer 

profusely,  but  he  did  not  over-amend  his  proofs. 
De  Quincey  was  particular  and  precise,  but  my 
copy  of  the  proofs  of  a  volume  of  his  essays  does 
not  show  any  evidence  of  needless  alteration; 
it  may  be  that  it  is  a  second  or  third  revise. 
Campbell,^  we  are  told,  was  so  fastidious  that 
he  once  took  a  six-mile  walk  to  his  printer 
(and  six  back  again)  to  see  a  comma  changed 
into  a  semi-colon.  I  am  always  disposed  to  be 
indulgent  to  the  printer,  even  to  the  one  who 
turned  a  college  -  day  quotation,  "Captive 
Greece  led  Rome  captive,"  into  the  astonishing 
statement  that  "Captain  Green  led  Rome  cap- 
tive." This  brings  to  my  mind  the  fact  that 
in  an  earlier  chapter  of  these  solemn  disquisitions 
the  kind  artist  of  the  type  made  me  cite  Hamer- 
ton  as  saying  that  "it  could  never  have  been 
intended  that  anybody  should  write  great  books." 
My  friend  the  Bear -Hunter,  protesting  against 
any  correction,  insisted  that  the  printer  was  a 
genius;  that  any  one  might  say  that  everybody 
cannot  write  great  books,  and  that  only  a  heaven- 
bom  spirit  could  see  and  announce  that  nobody 
can. 

Writers  generally  take  pains  to  be  accurate 

*  As  an  instance  of  modem  disdain  of  English  literature, 
I  must  own,  to  my  sorrow,  that  having  been  silly  enough 
to  quote  a  line  from  Hohenlinden  to  a  clever  young  lawyer 
of  New  York,  I  found  that  he  had  never  heard  of  either  the 
poem  or  of  Thomas  Campbell ! 

221 


The   Dioersions  of  a  Book-looer 

when  they  are  deaHng  with  technical  matters 
and  are  not  familiar  with  the  subject,  but  not 
infrequently  they  are  guilty  of  ludicrous  blun- 
ders.    Novelists,  for  example,  are  fond  of  intro- 
ducing legal  compHcations  in  their  plots,  but 
they  are  likely  to  suffer  shipwreck  unless  they 
submit  their  work  to  the  judgment  of  an  expert. 
They  are  particularly  enamoured  of  the  lost  will, 
of  all  matters  connected  with  the  laws  of  descent 
and  of  distribution,  and  especially  of  marriage 
and  divorce.     In  a  pleasant  paper,  read  at  a 
recent  Harvard  commencement,  Mr.  Allan   R. 
Campbell  deals  with  some  of  their  failures.*     He 
even  goes  so  far  as  to  assail  the  law  of   Ten 
Thousand  a  Year,  so  carefully  done  by  Samuel 
Warren,  physician  and  barrister.     Almost  every- 
body knows  that  the  story  turns  upon  the  re- 
covery  by   an   ignorant   fellow.    Tittlebat   Tit- 
mouse,  of  a   large  estate  in  the  possession  of 
his  cousins,  the  Aubreys,  which   he   afterwards 
lost  owing  to  an  accident  in  his  pedigree.     He 
had  won   his  case   on  the  trial  because  of  an 
apparent  descent  from  an  elder  branch  and  the 
invaHdity   of  a  certain   deed   arising   from   an 
erasure.     I  always  thought  that  the  deed  was 
erroneously  excluded,  but  let   it  pass.     It  ap- 
peared that  Titmouse's  great-grandfather  had 

'  The  Green  Bag,  August,  1903. 
222 


The  Dioersions   of  a  Book-looer 

been  put  out  of  possession  seventy  years  be- 
fore the  suit  was  begun,  but  he  was  then  be- 
yond seas,  and  the  statute  of  limitations  did 
not  begin  to  run  against  him.  The  successive 
heirs  were  all  under  like  disabilities  until  Mr. 
Titmouse  appeared.  Mr.  Campbell  announces, 
rather  hastily  I  think,  that  "a  plain  reason  ap- 
pears .  .  .  why  Tittlebat  Titmouse  should  not 
have  won,"  because  "a  claim  to  land  becomes 
unenforceable  if  not  asserted  within  twenty 
years  after  it  first  arose,"  and  the  exceptions 
exist  only  for  claimants  who  were  disabled  when 
the  claim  first  arose.  Mr.  Campbell  apparently 
ignores  Warren's  note  in  which  he  shows  that 
the  period  of  twenty  years  was  fixed  by  statute 
in  1833,  and  that  at  the  time  mentioned  in  the 
story  "a  far  longer  period  than  twenty  years 
was  required  to  constitute  adverse  possession." 
These,  however,  are  rather  fine  points  for  the  un- 
professional reader,  and  when  there  is  room  for 
difference  of  opinion  among  lawyers,  the  author 
should  have  the  benefit  of  the  doubt. 

In  the  instance  of  a  novel  of  great  popularity 
in  its  day,  Her  Dearest  Foe,  by  Mrs.  Alexander, 
there  was  no  good  excuse  for  a  serious  blunder 
of  the  author.  Travers,  a  wealthy  man,  seized 
of  real  estate  as  well  as  possessed  of  personal 
property,  leaves  a  will  in  which  he  does  not 
mention  his  young  wife,  and  gives   all   his   es- 

223 


The  Dioersions  of  a  Book-loocr 

tate  to  one  Galbraith.  Of  course,  Galbraith  ul- 
timately marries  the  poor  widow,  who  is  de- 
scribed as  being  in  absolute  beggary.  Her  legal 
advisers  seem  to  have  utterly  forgotten  her 
dower  right. 

Wilkie  Collins,  in  No  Name  and  Man  and 
Wife,  and  George  Eliot,  in  Felix  Holt,  were  more 
careful,  and  their  law  is  unimpeachable.  Dickens 
had  sufficient  experience  in  Mr.  Edward  Black- 
more's  office,  Gray's  Inn,  as  well  as  some  in- 
struction in  reporting  trials  and  arguments,  to 
avoid  pitfalls,  but  he  did  not  usually  go  very 
deeply  into  legal  perplexities.  It  is  difficult  to 
find  flaws  in  his  lawyers  or  in  his  law. 

I  have  often  wished  to  ask  Mr.  Howells 
whether  he  had  any  professional  assistance  when 
he  created  that  strong  and  impressive  trial  scene 
in  A  Modern  Instance.  I  call  it  a  trial  scene ;  to 
be  accurate,  it  was  really  a  motion  to  set  aside 
a  decree  obtained  by  default.  As  a  description 
of  a  day  in  court  I  know  of  nothing  more  vivid 
or  realistic  in  fiction.  The  ever-famous  Bardell 
vs.  Pickwick  is  funnier,  but  rather  extravagant. 
The  long-drawn-out  account  of  the  trial  of  Doe 
ex  dem.  Titmouse  vs.  Jolter,  in  Warren's  story,  is 
more  minute  and  technical,  but  it  is  tedious  to 
any  one  who  is  not  a  lawyer.  Howells's  picture 
of  the  Western  court-room,  the  dull  formalities 
observed    even    in    the    unconventional    region 

224 


The  Diuersions   of  a   Book-looer 

where  the  scene  is  laid,  the  every-day  routine, 
and  the  sudden  arrival  of  the  old  Squire,  with 
his  vigorous  and  dramatic  appeal  to  the  court, 
is  absolutely  the  best  work  of  its  kind.  The 
Squire,  a  fine  old  character  drawn  with  almost 
photographic  truth,  is  deeply  solicitous  for  his 
unhappy  daughter,  whose  case  he  is  conduct- 
ing, but  his  momentary  satisfaction  as  a  law- 
yer with  the  situation,  wholly  disassociated  from 
his  parental  feeling,  is  deliciously  brought  out. 
There  are  critics  who  think  that  Mr.  Howells  is 
monotonous  and  minute,  that  he  is  unable  to 
rise  to  serious  things,  and  that  his  realism  degen- 
erates into  commonplace.  I  differ  from  them, 
or  with  them,  just  as  you  please ;  but  surely  in 
this  book  he  has  given  us  a  genuine  tragedy  and 
has  established  his  title  to  a  seat  in  the  academy 
of  immortals. 

Miss  Murfree  has  produced  some  excellent 
descriptions  of  trials  on  the  criminal  side  of  the 
court.  I  am  not  so  well  satisfied  with  Sir 
Gilbert  Parker's  experiment  in  The  Right  of  Way. 
It  is  not  easy  work,  for  the  writer  who  attempts 
to  be  strictly  accurate  is  in  danger  of  becoming 
tiresome. 

Music  is  another  field  full  of  danger  for  the 

novelist.     Almost  every  man,  it  is  said,  believes 

that  he  knows  all  that  is  worth  knowing  about 

politics  and  religion,  and  he  is  almost  equally 

IS  225 


The  Dioersions  of  a  Book-looer 

confident  that  he  is  competent  to  deal  with 
musical  matters,  even  though  he  may  not  be 
able  to  distinguish  between  a  sonata  and  a 
symphony.  Charles  Reade  was  at  home  in  the 
legal  department  of  his  work,  but  in  Peg  Wofjing- 
ton  he  talks  about  "  a  sparkling  adagio."^  Ouida's 
men  and  women  are  always  wonderful,  but  she 
has  one  eminent  creation  who  played  "  the  grand 
old  masses  of  Mendelssohn!"  I  am  told  by  a 
friend  who  is  himself  a  successful  noveHst  that 
even  so  careful  and  versatile  a  man  as  F.  Hop- 
kinson  Smith  refers  to  "  Beethoven's  symphonies 
arranged  for  the  'cello,"  but,  as  I  cannot  cite 
chapter  and  verse,  I  will  not  be  responsible  for 
the  truth  of  the  accusation. 

It  has  always  been  rather  a  puzzle  to  me  why 
writers — and  the  noveUsts  are  usually  the  cul- 
prits— are  so  willing  to  spread  upon  paper  for 
the  edification  of  mankind  descriptions  of  their 
system  of  work.  It  must  be  an  outcropping 
of  that  vanity  which  lurks  in  the  souls  of  most 
men  and  women.  I  can  iinderstand  why,  in  an- 
swer to  civil  questions,  an  author  of  distinction 
might  say  that  he  usually  wrote  when  he  was  in 
the  humor,  that  he  habitually  used  black  ink 
and  white  paper,  that  he  sometimes  burned  the 

*  Grolier  Club  edition,  vol.  i.,  31. 
226 


The  Diuersions  of  a  Book-looer 

midnight  electric  bulb  and  occasionally  courted 
the  rays  of  the  rising  sun,  the  result  depending 
somewhat  on  the  condition  of  his  digestion  and 
the  urgency  of  the  printer.  But  why  all  the  de- 
tails? On  my  table  is  a  charming  bit  of  frank- 
ness in  the  shape  of  an  autograph  letter  of  Geor- 
giana  Maria  Craik,  who  is  not  overwhelmingly 
famous,  although  she  has  published  some  moder- 
ately deserving  volumes.  She  appears  to  regard 
herself  and  her  efforts  quite  seriously,  and  some- 
body evidently  took  enough  interest  in  her  pro- 
ductions to  inquire  about  the  method  which  she 
adopted  in  order  to  bring  them  safely  into  the 
world.  The  letter  is  dated  August  15,  1884,  and 
the  dame  gravely  says : 

"In  reply  to  your  inquiries: 

"First.  I  never,  except  on  rarest  occasions,  write  at 
night. 

"Second.  I  have  not  always  made  an  outline  be- 
forehand of  my  books,  but  of  late  years  I  have  gener- 
ally done  so. 

"Third.  I  never  use  stimulants  of  any  sort. 

"Fourth.  I  have  no  particular  habits  while  I  am  at 
work,  so  far  as  I  am  aware. 

"Fifth.  I  write  from  9  a.m.  until  2  p.m.  in  winter, 
and  in  summer  I  seldom  write  at  all. 

"Sixth.  When  I  have  once  begun  a  book  I  work  at 
it  steadily  every  day  during  three  hours,  without  any 
regard  to  inclination." 

These  particulars  are  evidently  of  importance 
to  the  person  who  bestows  them  upon  us,  and  in- 

227 


The  Dioersions  of  a   Book-locer 

dicate  that  placid  self-satisfaction  so  charac- 
teristic of  writers. 

Another  woman  author  who  has  achieved  a 
certain  fame  has  recorded  her  confidences  re- 
specting the  book  which  first  gave  her  notoriety, 
and  her  autographic  notes  are  before  me.  "  I 
started,"  says  John  Strange  Winter,  "to  draw 
Booties  from  a  man  that  I  knew,  and  worked 
in  the  story  of  another  man  who  was  killed  at 
Abu  Klea.  But  my  Booties  got  idealized  as  I 
sketched  him,  so  much  so  that  I  really  don't 
think  he  is  very  like  the  original  model.  I  feel 
this  is  rather  a  lame  answer  to  your  question, 
but  one  thing  is  certain,  that  there  are  plenty 
of  Booties  in  the  British  Army." 

The  lover  of  autographs  finds  it  difficult  to 
keep  off  of  his  chosen  ground.  They  will  persist 
in  cropping  up  like  the  head  of  Charles  I.  in  Mr. 
Dick's  manuscript.  Now  that  I  am  wandering 
among  novelists  and  autograph  letters,  I  may 
perhaps  be  allowed  to  quote  from  a  letter  in  my 
possession,  written  in  the  small,  precise,  and 
pretty  chirography  of  the  noted  Manxman,  who 
is  severely  assailed  by  the  critics,  but  who  seems 
to  have  won  popular  approval.  Some  do  not 
admire  Mr.  Caine,  but,  luckily  for  him,  there  are 
many  thousands  who  devour  his  works  hungrily 
and  have  crowned  him  as  one  of  the  kings  of 
modern  fiction.     I  do  not  know  to  whom  he  was 

228 


The  Dioersions   of  a  Book-Iooer 

writing,  as  the  address  is  not  given,  but  this  is 
what  he  says: 

"I  mean  that  the  art  of  composition — that  is,  the 
way  to  knead  words  into  sentences — is  easy  to  acquire, 
and  may  be  learned  by  nearly  any  one.  Hence  the 
race  of  authors  is  so  great,  and  hence  so  many  thou- 
sands of  persons  can  write  skilfully.  But  style  is  a 
thing  apart,  and  comes  largely  of  natural  gift,  and  can 
rarely  be  acquired  at  all.  You  know  that  the  French 
say  that  the  style  is  the  man,  and  the  dictum  is  true  in 
the  limited  sense  that  a  man's  style  comes  of  his  nature, 
his  character,  his  genius,  if  that  exists.  I  have  noticed 
that  an  uneducated  man  of  genius  will  speak  and  write 
in  a  manner  altogether  his  own — that  is  to  say,  in  style. 
In  all  great  effort  there  seems  to  be  a  force  outside  as 
well  as  a  force  inside  the  worker.  Hence  a  contempo- 
rary writer  says  that  whatever  can  be  done  well  can  be 
done  easily  (though  I  think  he  used  the  phrase  in  an- 
other sense),  and  hence  Charlotte  Bronte  found  that 
there  was  something  'not  herself  laboring  with  her  at 
her  best." 

There  is  surely  a  mystery  about  what  is 
called  "style."  I  have  found  that  the  un- 
cultivated, unliterary,  unread  person  in  these 
days  is  the  greatest  stickler  for  the  formal  and 
the  conventional.  I  have  in  mind  an  active 
man,  whose  concerns  are  chiefly  with  sports  and 
money-making,  who  severely  criticises  me  be- 
cause I  do  not  write  secundum  artem.  He  resents 
anything  which  does  not  conform  to  the  rules 
of  rhetoric  as  taught  in  the  schools.  When 
I  tell  him  that  genius  declines  such  fetters,  he 
229 


The   Diocrsions  of  a  Boob-looer 

says  that  there  must  be  genius  to  dispense  with 
the  bonds  of  regularity.  His  own  personal  lit- 
erary talents  are  mainly  devoted  to  the  prepa- 
ration of  briefs,  and  he  jealously  respects  the 
orderly  sequence  of  introduction,  proposition, 
discussion,  and  peroration.  He  has  learned 
that,  and  it  affords  him  his  standard;  whatever 
does  not  conform  to  it  is  wrong.  But  that  is  a 
characteristic  of  the  man  who  has  no  interest  in 
the  subject  and,  having  no  time  for  original 
reflection,  accepts  what  he  supposes  to  be  the 
proper  judgment  about  it,  and  objects  to  any 
variations. 

We  were  speaking  just  now  about  Carlyle's 
style,  which  is  proverbially  uncouth,  and  arouses 
wrathful  feelings  because  it  is  needlessly  fan- 
tastic. If  Buff  on  was  right  when  he  said  "the 
style  is  the  man,"  Carlyle  must  have  been  even 
worse  than  Froude's  description.  So  much  has 
been  written  about  Macaulay  and  his  coruscat- 
ing, picturesque  methods  of  expression  that  one 
almost  hesitates  to  refer  to  him  or  to  discuss  him. 
I  always  loved  him  because  he  delighted  in 
gorgeous  waistcoats,  never  learned  to  tie  his 
neckcloth,  and  used  his  razor  with  only  moderate 
skill.  He  was  "utterly  destitute  of  bodily  ac- 
complishments," and  "viewed  his  deficiencies 
with  supreme  indifference.  He  could  neither 
swim,    nor     row,    nor    drive,    nor    skate,    nor 


The   Dioersions  of  a  Book-Iooer 

shoot."  *  When  he  was  at  Windsor,  while  a  cab- 
inet minister,  he  was  told  that  a  horse  was  at  his 
disposal.  "If  her  Majesty  wishes  to  see  me 
ride,"  he  said,  "she  must  order  out  an  ele- 
phant." 

Macaulay  said  of  a  contemporary:  "He  is,  I 
see,  an  imitator  of  me.  But  I  am  a  very  unsafe 
model.  My  manner  is,  I  think,  and  the  world 
thinks,  on  the  whole,  a  good  one ;  but  it  is  very 
near  to  a  very  bad  manner  indeed,  and  those 
characteristics  of  my  style  which  are  most  eas- 
ily copied  are  the  most  questionable."  ^  The 
scholarly  George  Birkbeck  Hill,  who  tells  us  that 
Macaulay  could  not  relish  Carlyle's  descriptive 
writings,  was  inclined  to  think  that,  in  the  long 
run,  Carlyle's  pages  had  caused  him  more  misery 
than  pleasure.  He  says  that  the  art  of  Carlyle 
and  of  Ruskin  seems  easy,  and  that  for  this 
reason  a  host  of  servile  imitators  spring  up  like 
mushrooms  in  a  September  night. 

Philip  Gilbert  Hamerton,  quoting  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds,  says  that  "style  is  a  power  over 
materials,  whether  words  or  colors,  by  which 
conceptions  or  sentiments  are  conveyed."  It 
is,  he  says,  the  result  of  culture.  "  It  can  only 
be  attained  by  gifted  persons,  but  the  most 
gifted   persons   cannot   attain   it   in   isolation." 

'  Trevelyan's  Life  and  Letters  of  Lord  Macaulay,  vol.  i., 
ii8.  "^Id.  vol.  ii.,  381 

231 


The  Diversions  of  a  Book-looer 

One  may  add  that  the  style  which  pleases  Caius 
may  be  a  torment  to  Balbus;  and  in  these  days 
we  find  readers  who  are  foolhardy  enough  to  dis- 
sent from  the  well-known  dictum  of  Doctor  John- 
son: "Whoever  wishes  to  attain  an  English 
style,  familiar  but  not  coarse,  and  elegant  but 
not  ostentatious,  must  give  his  days  and  nights 
to  the  volumes  of  Addison." 


XII 

Of   Walter   Pater,    book-shops,    Wordsworth,    Gilbert 
and  Sullivan,  Marie  Corelli,  and  kindred  topics. 

WHILE  we  are  reflecting  about  style  we 
naturally  think  of  Walter  Pater,  Fellow  of 
Brasenose  College,  Oxford,  whom  many  living 
persons  honor  as  an  arbiter  from  whose  decision 
no  appeal  lies. 

Macmillan  &  Company  have  given  us  a  beau- 
tiful edition  of  Walter  Pater's  works  (limit- 
ed to  seven  hundred  and  seventy-five  copies, 
and  published  in  1901),  with  fascinating  type, 
restful  to  the  eye,  and  boasting  of  a  binding  of 
the  provoking  English  sort,  intended  to  be 
supplanted  later  by  something  serious  and 
durable.  I  fell  in  love  with  it  at  first  sight  in  an 
enticing  shop  on  the  Strand,  recently  establish- 
ed by  a  firm  which,  after  long  delay,  removed 
thither  from  a  secluded  den  in  the  remote  regions 
of  Paddington  Green,  where  for  many  years  they 
had  hidden  themselves  for  reasons  of  charac- 
teristic English  conservatism  hard  for  us  to 
understand.  Our  own  bookdealers  move  about 
233 


The  Dioersions  of  a  Book-looer 

without  the  sUghtest  concern,  save  only  to  be 
among  the  buyers.  I  have  followed  one  of  them 
from  Broadway  and  Eighth  Street  to  Forty- 
second  Street,  thence  southerly  in  a  devious  line 
to  the  financial  precincts  of  New  Street,  and 
thence — I  may  be  obliged  to  pursue  him  to  Fort 
Washington  or  perhaps  to  Yonkers.  Thus  far 
can  I  go,  but  no  farther. 

It  is  unfortunate  that  we  New-Yorkers  cannot 
have  such  delectable  shops  as  those  which  we  en- 
counter in  so  many  of  the  London  streets.  To 
rove,  ramble,  and  revel  in  the  alcoves  and  about 
the  shelves  of  those  snug  and  seductive  little 
storehouses  is  a  delight,  although  it  is  likewise  a 
torture  to  the  covetous  bibliophile  who  is  obliged 
to  cotmt  his  assets  with  care  and  to  reckon  how 
far  his  modest  letter  of  credit  will  carry  him. 
The  proprietors  never  bore  a  visitor.  The  chance 
caller  may  wander  and  browse  among  the 
treasures  without  let  or  hinderance,  and  without 
even  the  shadow  of  solicitation,  for  the  vendors 
are  passing  wise  in  their  knowledge  of  the  book- 
buyer's  nature.  That  individual  loves  to  make 
his  own  selections,  and  he  resents  the  suggestions 
of  the  salesman,  usually  unwelcome.  Many  a 
time  and  oft  one  rejects  a  book  with  disdain 
because  of  an  attempt  to  force  its  purchase. 
Our  English  friends  have  learned  the  art  of 
skilful  innuendo.  When  you  take  from  its  rest- 
234 


The  Dioersions   of  a   Book-looer 

ing  -  place  on  the  shelf  some  precious  volume 
which  causes  the  heart  to  palpitate,  and  timidly 
inquire  the  price,  they  almost  apologize  for  even 
mentioning  such  a  thing.  Experiences  like  these 
brighten  the  life  of  the  book-lover. 

I  must  not  be  understood  as  intimating  that 
there  is  any  disagreeable  quality  in  our  great 
"book-stores"  or  any  lack  of  courtesy  exhibited 
by  the  persons  in  charge  of  them.  The  contrary 
is  the  truth.  The  point  of  the  matter  is  that  the 
"  stores"  are,  in  a  way,  too  stately,  too  imposing; 
they  are  not  real  "shops."  But  I  know  of  one 
or  two  not  far  away,  and  I  shall  not  tell  you 
where  they  are,  for  several  obvious  reasons. 

The  portrait  of  Walter  Horatio  Pater  pre- 
fixed to  volume  vii.  of  this  collected  edition  of  his 
works  gives  the  impression  that  he  may  have  been 
the  manager  of  a  baseball  nine  or  of  a  dime 
museum.  The  head  is  good,  but  the  mustache 
is  incomprehensible,  of  a  fashion  once  popular 
in  the  Bowery.  We  should  not  be  asked  to 
accept  views  of  style  uttered  by  any  one  wearing 
such  an  unlovely  mustache.  Despite  the  pos- 
session of  this  atrocious  deformity,  Pater  is  no 
doubt  one  of  the  commanding  authorities  before 
whom  we  are  expected  to  abase  ourselves  and 
to  whom  we  must  give  unquestioning  obedience. 
But  with  the  calm,  unblushing  confidence  of  the 
simple  American,   I   venture  to  object  to  his 

235 


The  Diuersions   of  a  Book-louer 

calling  some  of  his  essays  about  authors  "Ap- 
preciations." In  one  sense  an  appreciation  of 
a  person  is  only  "a  just  estimate"  of  him;  the 
phrase,  however,  seems  to  be  affected  and 
artificial,  although  it  appears  to  have  been 
adopted  in  late  years  by  authors  who  are  care- 
ful about  their  English. 

Will  it  be  regarded  as  presumptuous  to  dissent 
from  some  of  the  dicta  of  this  literary  autocrat? 
"Any  writer,"  he  says,  "worth  translating  at 
all  has  winnowed  and  searched  through  his 
vocabulary,  is  conscious  of  the  words  he  would 
select  in  systematic  reading  of  a  dictionary,  and 
still  more  of  the  words  he  would  reject  were  the 
dictionary  other  than  Johnson's;  and  doing  this, 
with  his  peculiar  sense  of  the  world  ever  in  view, 
in  search  of  an  instrument  for  the  adequate  ex- 
pression of  that,  he  begets  a  vocabulary  faithful 
to  the  coloring  of  his  own  spirit  and  in  the 
strictest  sense  original." 

To  an  imsophisticated  intelligence  this  utter- 
ance is  obscure  at  the  first  reading,  but  it  may 
be  elucidated  after  a  little  study.  One  may 
doubt  whether  a  man  who  writes  from  a  full  mind 
and  with  a  strong  impulse  would  trouble  himself 
greatly  about  a  dictionary,  whether  it  be  John- 
son's or  one  of  those  modern  encyclopaedias  mas- 
querading as  a  dictionary.  If  his  thoughts  are 
worth  expressing  at  all,  he  must  send  them  forth 

236 


The  Diocrsions   of  a  Book-looer 

in  his  own  natural  way,  without  pausing  to 
consult  Johnson,  or  the  Century,  or  even  that 
convenient  Thesaurus  which  the  good  old  Doctor 
Roget  devised  for  the  aid  of  those  who  are 
wanting  in  verbal  inspiration.  He  should  leave 
such  things  to  the  school-boy  struggling  with  his 
weekly  composition. 

The  difficulty  about  Pater  and  his  kind  is  that 
they  lose  the  natural  in  their  devotion  to  the 
formal.  They  become  mere  dispensers  of  literary 
millinery.  They  seem  always  to  be  thinking 
not  of  what  they  are  saying  but  of  how  they 
are  saying  it.  As  Edmund  Gosse  well  says,  it 
means  the  loss  of  the  simplicity  and  freshness  of 
the  real  style  worth  cultivating.  It  is  almost 
unnecessary  to  assert  that  it  is  not  of  as  much 
importance  how  one  says  a  thing  as  whether 
it  is  worth  saying  at  all.  One  may  take  in- 
finite pains  about  the  manner,  but  men  look 
chiefly  for  the  substance  of  things  rather  than 
the  method  of  presenting  them.  I  have  always 
thought  that  Mr.  Cleveland's  official  style  was 
cumbrous  and  that  it  was  saturated  with  an 
awkward  formality,  no  doubt  a  relic  of  the  elab- 
orate Presbyterian  sermons  of  his  worthy  sire; 
but  his  utterances  tell,  because  he  usually  has 
something  strong  and  sensible  to  say.  When  he 
is  really  aroused  he  drops  his  forms  and  speaks 
with  a  force  and  dignity  rarely  equalled.  Few 
237 


The   Diversions  of  a  Book-looer 

who  heard  him  will  forget  the  impression  which 
on  the  eve  of  the  national  election  of  1896  he 
made  upon  his  hearers,  in  his  Princeton  address, 
as  he  said,  earnestly,  "When  the  attempt  is 
made  to  delude  the  people  into  the  belief  that 
their  suffrages  can  change  the  operation  of 
natural  laws,  I  would  have  our  universities 
and  colleges  proclaim  that  those  laws  are 
inexorable  and  far  removed  from  political 
control."  On  that  occasion  he  surely  attain- 
ed the  purest  and  most  convincing  elo- 
quence, an  eloquence  like  that  of  Lincoln  at 
Gettysburg,  which  has  survived  the  polished 
phrases  of  Everett,  although  it  is  said  that  the 
famous  Gettysburg  speech  was  by  no  means 
effective  in  its  delivery.  Both  Benjamin 
Harrison  and  William  McKinley  were  more 
fluent  and  facile  speakers  than  Grover  Cleve- 
land is,  but  neither  of  them  was  more  elo- 
quent in  the  true  sense 

It  is  a  long  ramble  from  American  Presidents 
to  Oxford  Fellows.  Returning  to  Pater,  we 
find  him  saying:  "Racy  Saxon  monosyllables, 
close  to  us  as  touch  and  sight,  he  will  inter- 
mix readily  with  those  long,  savorsome  Latin 
words,  rich  in  'second  intention.'"  But  the 
misfortune  of  it  is  that  when  a  man  pauses  to 
bethink  himself  of  his  Saxon  monosyllables  and 
his  savorsome  Latin  words  he  may  as  well  put 
238 


The   Dioersions  of  a   Book-loDer 

up  his  shutters  and  close  his  Httle  shop.  He 
has  lost  his  spontaneous  life,  he  has  become  a 
mere  juggler  of  words,  and  he  is  no  better  than 
Antonio  de  Guerrara  or  John  Lyly  of  Euphuis- 
tic  fame ;  he  is  a  specimen  of  affectation,  devoid 
of  soul  and  animation.  The  best  way  to  write  is 
to  write  honestly,  simply,  and  directly,  after  the 
fashion  in  which  men  talk  to  their  fellows.  If 
you  wish  to  tell  somebody  anything  worthy  of 
the  telling,  you  say  it  to  him  in  such  a  way  that 
he  may  readily  comprehend  your  meaning,  and 
that,  I  conceive,  is  the  secret  of  style. 

Pater  eulogizes  Flaubert,  as  might  be  ex- 
pected, and  Flaubert  is  a  master  of  form,  lacking 
genuine  strength,  heartiness,  and  vitaHty.  Per- 
haps Pater's  own  language  may  illustrate  my 
meaning  when  I  say  that  the  melodious  com- 
bination of  words  into  sentences  is  not  the  only 
thing  which  a  writer,  intent  on  giving  a  message 
to  mankind,  must  aim  to  accomplish. 

"Style,"  said  Pater,  "in  all  its  varieties,  re- 
served or  opulent,  terse,  abundant,  musical, 
stimulant,  academic,  so  long  as  each  is  really 
characteristic  or  expressive,  finds  thus  its  justi- 
fication, the  sumptuous  good  taste  of  Cicero  be- 
ing as  truly  the  man  himself,  and  not  another, 
justified,  yet  insured  inalienably  to  him,  thereby, 
as  would  have  been  his  portrait  by  Rafaelle  in 
full  consular  splendor,  in  his  ivory  chair."    This 

239 


The  Dioersions  o^  a  Book-locer 

seems  to  be  the  deadly  decadence  of  what  we 
may  style  the  dictionary  school,  dull  and  de- 
pressing, a  perplexing  Pater-song— style  gone 
mad.  We  cannot  imagine  Shakespeare  or 
Milton  or  Sir  Thomas  Browne  mincing  in  Hke 
fashion. 

Mr.  Gosse,  whose  taste  is  unquestionable,  has 
uttered  a  more  cautious  opinion,  and  perhaps 
his  mild  criticism  is  sufficiently  severe.  He 
says  of  Pater:  "He  exhausted  himself  in  the 
research  after  absolute  perfection  of  expression, 
noting  with  extreme  refinement  fine  shades  of 
feeling  and  delicate  distinctions  of  thought  and 
sentiment.  His  fault  was  to  overburden  his 
sentences,  to  annex  to  them  too  many  parenthet- 
ical clauses  and  adjectival  glosses.  He  was  the 
most  studied  of  the  English  prose- writers  of  his 
time,  and  his  long-drawn  style  was  lacking  in 
simplicity  and  freshness." 

Andrew  Lang,  with  his  light  and  airy  touch, 
has  mildly  ridiculed  the  Pater  cult  in  his  graceful 
essay  on  How  to  Fail  in  Literature.  He  quotes 
thus  from  the  solemn  dictator:  "The  otiose,  the 
facile  surplusage;  why  are  these  abhorrent  to 
the  true  Hterary  artist,  except  because,  in 
literary  as  in  all  other  art,  structure  is  all-im- 
portant, felt  or  painfully  missed,  everywhere — 
that  architectural  conception  of  work  which 
foresees  the  end  in  the  beginning,  and  never 

240 


The  Dioersions   of  a  Book-looer 

loses  sight  of  it,  and  in  every  part  is  conscious 
of  all  the  rest,  till  the  last  sentence  does  but, 
with  undiminished  vigor,  unfold  and  justify  the 
first — a  condition  of  literary  art  which,  in  con- 
tradistinction to  another  quality  of  the  artist 
himself,  to  be  spoken  of  later,  I  shall  call  the 
necessity  of  mind  in  style."  Mr.  Lang  gently 
suggests  that  in  certain  kinds  of  literary  work 
one  must  "  often  have  to  forget  Mr.  Pater,"  and 
he  tells  us  wisely  that  Montaigne  would  be  ruled 
out  on  any  such  theory,  and  that  the  "con- 
centrated and  structural  style"  occupies  a 
province  by  itself,  while  the  allusive  style  has 
another  place.  It  is  wrong  to  use  either  style 
inappropriately.  My  own  belief  is  that  Mr. 
Pater  is  a  melancholy  monument  of  mistaken 
mannerism.  He  has  no  hold  upon  men,  and  he 
is  destined  to  attain  the  immortality  of  those 
who  are  the  examples  of  degeneracy  in  their 
age. 

"  To  divert  at  any  time  a  troublesome  fancy, 
run  to  thy  books;  they  presently  fix  thee  to 
them,  and  drive  the  other  out  of  thy  thoughts. 
They  always  receive  thee  with  the  same  kind- 
ness." Such  are  the  familiar  words  of  Thomas 
Fuller,  and  I  am  citing  them,  not  from  the 
original  (which  I  own  I  never  saw),  but  from 
the  pretty  book  already  mentioned.  The  Pleas- 
ures of  Literature.     I  do  not  care  much  where  I 

i6  241 


The  Dioersions  of  a  Book-looer 

find  things  if  they  are  worth  finding.  I  may 
even  recall  what  Wordsworth  said:  "Books  we 
know  are  a  substantial  world,  both  pure  and 
good"  ;  and  also  the  saying  of  Bacon  that  "  some 
books  are  to  be  tasted,  others  to  be  swallowed, 
and  some  few  to  be  chewed  and  digested." 
These  are  stock  quotations,  but  they  are  none 
the  less  significant.  We  may  all  of  us  be  fond 
of  what  Longfellow  calls,  in  his  stately  poem, 
"  Morituri  Salutamus,"  "all  the  sweet  serenity 
of  books" — that  is,  "the  books,  the  arts,  the 
academes,  that  show,  contain  and  nourish  all 
the  world."     We  love 

.  .  .  that  place  that  does  contain  my  books,  the  best 
companions. 

Wordsworth  often  wrote  with  a  slate-pencil  on  a 
smooth  piece  of  stone,  and  he  said  his  poems 
aloud,  much  to  the  astonishment  of  the  common 
people  who  listened  to  him.  Some  one  tells  us 
that  a  man  lost  his  way  in  an  attempt  to  dis- 
cover Rydal  Mount,  and,  meeting  an  old  woman 
in  a  scarlet  cloak,  he  asked  her  the  way.  She 
did  not  know.  "What!  Not  know,"  said  the 
American,  "  the  house  of  the  great  Wordsworth?" 
"  No . "  "  What !  Not  the  house  of  the  man  whose 
fame  brings  people  here  from  all  parts  of  the 
world?"  "No,"  she  insisted;  "but  what  was 
he  great  in?     Was  he  a  preacher  or  a  doctor?" 

242 


The   Diocrsions  of   a  Book-looer 

"Greater  than  a  preacher  or  a  doctor;  he  was  a 
poet."  "Oh!  poet,"  she  replied;  "and  why 
did  you  not  tell  me  that  before?  I  know  who 
you  mean  now.  I  often  met  him  in  the  woods, 
jabbering  his  pottery  to  himself.  But  I  am  not 
afraid  of  him.  He's  quite  harmless,  and  almost 
as  sensible  as  you  and  me."  I  do  not  believe 
that  story;  it  sounds  like  those  we  read  in  the 
Sunday  newspapers. 

Nobody  can  deny  that  William  S.  Gilbert  and 
Arthur  Sullivan,  a  noble  pair  of  brothers,  added 
greatly  to  the  public  stock  of  harmless  pleasure. 
Before  their  day  Planche  and  his  painful  puns 
represented  English  comic  operetta,  and  really 
Planche  was  often  tedious.  Gilbert  lives,  having 
reached  his  acme  of  production,  and  we  owe  to 
him  a  debt  of  gratitude.  He  took  the  infinite 
pains  which  are  said  to  be  the  characteristic  of 
genius.  He  first  wrote  out  the  plot  of  his  play 
as  if  it  were  an  anecdote;  then  he  expanded 
the  anecdote  to  the  length  of  an  ordinary  maga- 
zine article.  When  this  had  been  carefully  cor- 
rected it  was  ready  to  be  broken  up  into  acts, 
and  the  scenes,  entrances,  and  exits  were  ar- 
ranged. Not  until  its  fifth  appearance  in  manu- 
script was  the  play  illustrated  by  dialogue.  At 
this  stage  Sullivan  was  called  in,  and  all  began 
over  again.  In  this  way  the  great  collahorateurs 
built  up  the  charming  operas  which  the  world 

243 


The   Dioersions   of  a   Book-locer 

will  never  willingly  let  die.  But  it  will  repay 
a  reader  to  study  the  verses  of  Gilbert  as  mere 
literature,  to  use  the  phrase  of  Woodrow  Wilson, 
disassociated  from  music  and  the  stage. 

Coming  back  to  autograph  letters  of  novelists, 
I  find  one  of  Marie  Corelli,  addressed  to  Ireland 
(I  suppose  it  is  the  Book-Lover's  Enchiridion 
man),  which  has  an  interest  for  those  who  read 
the  lady's  screeds,  and  there  are  many  who  ad- 
mire her.     She  writes: 

"I  have  written  many  studies  for  the  organ,  and  six 
voluntaries  which  I  composed  for  the  Queen  of  Italy 
(who  has  graciously  made  me  a  sort  of  protegee  of  hers 
as  far  as  my  musical  compositions  are  concerned)  have 
also  had  a  great  success  in  Italy.  Of  my  literary  efforts 
I  do  not  desire  to  speak ;  when  I  have  written  something 
worthy  of  your  reading  I  will  let  you  know.  Two  tri- 
fling poems  of  mine  on  Shakesperian  subjects  are  to 
appear  (I  believe)  in  the  February  number  of  The 
Theatre,  but  they  are  not  worth  your  looking  at.  Re- 
garding Emerson's  letters,  I  could  send  them  to  you 
with  pleasure,  but  I  have  lent  them  to  a  Greek  friend 
who  is  occupying  himself  with  translating  extracts  from 
Emerson  into  Greek,  'to  see  how  they  sound,*  she  says; 
but  of  course  they  will  sound  well  in  any  language.  .  .  . 
I  am  staying  on  a  visit  here  at  the  house  of  Charles 
Mackay,  LL.D.,  F.S.A.,  the  English  poet.  He  told  me 
last  night  that  you  knew  him  in  former  days,  but  that 
a  misunderstanding  had  arisen  between  you  concerning 
the  side  he  had  taken  during  the  American  civil  war. 
Could  not  this  difference  now,  at  this  distance  of  time, 
be  cleared  away?  Mackay  speaks  of  you  with  the 
greatest  regard — and,  indeed,  it  is  to  him  I  owe  my 
first  knowledge  of  Emerson's  writings.  He  is  a  most 
244 


The   Dioersions   of  a   Book-looer 

noble-hearted  man,  and,  though  in  straightened  (sic) 
circumstances  and  failing  health,  he  is  so  patient,  high- 
minded,  and  sweet-tempered  that  he  wins  the  affection 
of  all  with  whom  he  comes  in  contact." 

It  is  strange  that  men  of  Hterature  should  al- 
low themselves  to  become  personally  hostile  for 
any  mere  political  reasons.  Mackay,  who  was  a 
prolific  producer  of  books,  mostly  of  no  serious 
value,  wrote  some  good  songs,  for  love,  and 
dribbled  off  a  lot  of  prose,  for  money.  He  was 
the  special  correspondent  of  the  London  Times 
in  New  York  during  the  War  of  the  Rebellion,  and 
wrote  much  "to  order."  It  may  be  doubted 
whether  he  had  any  grave  or  well-founded  judg- 
ments concerning  the  troubles  between  North 
and  South.  Correspondents  seldom  have  the 
opportunity  to  form  such  judgments.  I  remem- 
ber an  instance  of  a  young  college  graduate 
who  was  trying  to  earn  his  living  while  studying 
law  in  New  York,  and  who  was  engaged,  much 
to  his  delight,  to  write  New  York  letters  for  a 
Southern  newspaper  at  five  dollars  a  column. 
Instructed  to  denounce  the  Democrats,  he  pro- 
duced a  column  which  he  considered  to  be  al- 
together worthy  — ■  of  five  dollars.  Unfortu- 
nately, between  the  date  of  mailing  and  the  day 
of  receipt  the  journal  changed  its  politics,  and 
he  had  the  peculiar  pleasure  of  finding  his  ar- 
ticle transformed  into  a  fiery  denunciation  of 
245 


The  DiDcrsions  of  a  Book-lou)er 

the  Republican  party  in  Georgia.  Strangely- 
enough,  the  alterations  were  few.  Thereafter  he 
tuned  his  harp  to  suit  the  reversed  situation,  and 
it  was  not  difficult,  because  his  convictions  were 
in  that  direction  all  along. 


XIII 

County  histories;  the  binding  of  old  books;  Lamb  and 
De  Quincey, 

ENUMERATING  the  various  species  of  the 
genus  collector,  Mr.  Lang  observes  that, 
"being  a  person  of  large  fortune  and  landed 
estate,  you  may  collect  county  histories."  The 
late  Lord  Braybrooke  was  an  enthusiastic  col- 
lector of  county  histories,  and  his  collection  is 
said  to  have  been  valuable  and  interesting. 
Years  ago  I  encountered  in  New  York  a  jovial 
and  generous-hearted  Englishman,  a  solicitor,  on 
his  first  visit  to  "the  States,"  who  had  the  same 
hobby,  and  he  asserted  vigorously  that  it  was 
both  useful  and  profitable.  I  did  not  compre- 
hend it  at  the  time,  but  I  learned  afterwards  that 
the  pursuit  was  fascinating  and  by  no  means 
without  justification. 

The  English  county  histories  are  elaborate 
affairs,  and  the  prices  are  large  enough  to  account 
for  Mr.  Lang's  intimation  that  a  long  purse  is 
needed  to  qualify  one  for  the  struggle.  Naturally 
our  American  county  histories  are  more  familiar 
to  us.     They  are  full  of  facts,  genealogical,  bio- 

247 


The  Diuersions   of  a  Book-looer 

graphical,  and  historical,  and  of  portraits  and 
views,  some  of  which  are  important  and  others 
amusing.  Even  the  gilded  subscription  volumes 
of  quarto  size,  palpably  "gotten  up"  to  entice 
the  local  magnates,  are  not  without  interest  and 
value,  and  they  often  give  us  pleasant  glimpses 
of  what  is  commonly  called  "human  nature." 
One  can  imagine  the  pride  of  Reuben  Jones, 
wealthy  farmer,  when  he  beholds  his  personal 
story  set  forth  in  print,  with  his  bucolic  coun- 
tenance perpetuated  in  a  steel-engraving,  while 
his  wife's  plain  and  honest  visage  is  displayed  in 
a  modest  wood-cut.  There  also  he  may  see  the 
representation  of  his  smart  mansion,  white  and 
boxlike,  with  columns  in  front  and  a  cupola, 
approached  by  a  perfectly  straight  "avenue" 
upon  which  is  seen  the  inevitable  spanking  team 
of  trotters  and  a  neat  road- wagon,  supposed  to 
be  the  indispensable  adjunct  of  a  "place"  in 
Podunk  County.  Yet  while  we  sneer  flippantly 
at  Reuben  Jones  —  he  cares  nothing  for  first 
editions  and  is  hopelessly  ignorant  of  Grolier,  or 
Bussy  Rabutin,  or  Books  of  Hours,  or  incunabula 
of  any  sort — he  is  one  of  the  potent  factors  in  our 
prosperity;  he  has  helped  to  build  the  nation, 
and  he  has  been  a  producer  of  material  wealth. 
Although  he  may  not  possess  even  that  which 
sufficed  for  the  library  of  Cliaucer's  Clerk  of 
Oxenford — 

248 


The   Dioersions   of  a   Book-looer 

A  twenty  bokes,  clothed  in  black  and  red, 
Of  Aristotle  and  his  philosophic — 

he  is  no  mean  citizen  of  a  great  republic  which 
has  gained  its  greatness  by  the  toil  and  in- 
dustry of  just  such  sturdy  workers. 

All  of  the  local  histories  are  not,  however, 
of  the  subscription  -  book  order.  There  is  the 
History  of  Westchester  County,  New  York,  by 
Robert  Bolton,  whose  two  volumes  are  replete 
with  interesting  details,  a  treasure  -  house  of 
valuable  lore.  The  History  of  Herkimer  County, 
by  Nathaniel  S.  Benton,  ranks  among  the  best 
and  is  deemed  worthy  of  mention  in  the  Litera- 
ture of  American  History,  published  under  the 
auspices  of  the  American  Library  Association. 
The  author,  an  old  politician  of  the  pre-Re- 
bellion  days,  was  a  long-time  resident  of  the 
region,  and  while  he  freely  used  the  records  of 
the  neighborhood,  he  relied  much  upon  his 
personal  knowledge  and  recollections.  Judge 
Campbell's  Annals  of  Try  on  County,  published 
in  1 83 1,  is  recognized  as  authoritative,  and, 
although  written  by  a  lawyer  who  years  later 
occupied  a  seat  upon  the  bench  of  the  Supreme 
Court  of  New  York,  it  is  clever  in  style  and  en- 
tertaining. James  Riker's  Harlem  is  not  by  any 
means  amusing  or  enlivening  to  the  spirit,  but 
it  is  a  repository  of  information,  and  was  at  one 
time  almost  indispensable  to  the  industrious  ex- 

249 


The   Diucrsions  of  a  Book-loocr 

aminers  of  land-titles  in  the  upper  portion  of  the 
Borough  of  Manhattan. 

For  some  years  to  come  there  will  be  an 
especial  interest  in  a  small  duodecimo  volume 
whose  title-page  reads:  "History  of  Delaware 
County,  and  Border  Wars  of  New  York;  con- 
taining a  Sketch  of  the  Early  Settlements  in  the 
County  and  a  History  of  the  late  Anti-Rent  Dif- 
ficulties in  Delaware;  with  other  Historical  and 
Miscellaneous  Matter  never  before  published:  by 
Jay  Gould:  Roxbury,  rSfid."  During  Mr.  Gould's 
life  the  newspapers  were  accustomed  to  favor 
us  from  time  to  time  with  tales  about  this  work 
and  the  supposed  attempts  of  the  successful 
financier  to  suppress  it.  There  was  no  reason 
why  he  should  have  wished  to  suppress  it,  for  it 
is  a  good  history,  written  with  some  literary 
skill,  and  relating  the  story  of  Delaware  County 
with  unpretentious  dignity.  Doubtless  the  ac- 
counts of  his  efforts  to  destroy  the  current 
copies  had  their  foundations  in  the  lively  im- 
aginations of  the  reporters  or  the  covetousness  of 
the  dealers  in  second-hand  books.  At  all  events, 
the  book  is  only  moderately  rare,  its  scarceness 
arising  from  the  fact  that  owners  keep  their 
copies  because  of  the  distinction  which  the 
author  attained  in  other  fields.  My  own  copy 
furnishes  a  melancholy  instance  of  the  tyro's 
folly.     When  I  found  it  described  in  a  casual 

250 


The  Diversions   of  a  Book-looer 

catalogue,  I  hastened  to  possess  it,  and  forth- 
with committed  the  crime  of  sending  it  to  the 
binder  in  order  to  have  it  clothed  in  half  levant, 
destroying  the  original  cloth  covers.  By  this 
idiotic  proceeding  I  reduced  its  pecuniary  value 
at  least  one-half;  but  I  will  never  do  so  any 
more. 

The  foolishness  of  rebinding  a  rare,  old  vol- 
ume does  not  lie  chiefly  in  the  destruction  of  the 
margins,  because  that  may  be  avoided  easily,  and 
our  great  modern  binders  are  artists  who  respect 
the  volume,  and  are  not  given  to  needless  plough- 
ing and  clipping.  The  error  is  in  overlooking 
the  fact  that  the  original  binding,  paper,  cloth, 
or  boards,  is  a  part  of  the  book  itself,  and  if  we 
lose  it  we  no  longer  possess  the  exact  thing  as  it 
came  into  the  world;  we  do  not  have  the  book 
in  full  measure,  to  borrow  the  phrase  of  Mr. 
Humphreys.  These  considerations  always  arouse 
the  wonder  of  the  wayfaring  person  who  thinks 
that  a  book  is  worthy  merely  because  of  its 
contents,  and  is  as  well  satisfied  with  a  cheap 
reprint  of  the  Vtcar  of  Wakefield  as  he  would  be 
with  the  two- volume  (imperfect)  copy  of  1766, 
which  brought  £82  at  Sotheby's  sale  of  the 
library  of  the  gentleman  with  an  inappropriate 
name,  Mr.  William  Twopenny,  of  Woodstock 
Park,  Sittingbourne.  It  was  well  said  in  an 
English  magazine:"  It  is  the  continual  widening 

251 


The  Dioersions   of  a  Book-looer 

of  the  gulf  that  separates  distinctions  which 
causes  one  to  wonder  when  the  operators  will 
have  dug  enough,  and  these  operators  are  the 
dilettanti  themselves,  who  will  perhaps  never 
cease  from  their  labors,  for  they  work  by  the 
book  of  arithmetic,  with  great  nicety  of  precision. 
Whoever  would  have  imagined,  for  instance,  that 
the  rule  relating  to  '  condition '  would  have  been 
carried  so  far  as  it  has  been  ?  This  is  the  very 
precise  rule  that  exists  once  and  for  all,  and,  like 
the  laws  of  the  Medes  and  Persians,  remains  al- 
ways the  same.  It  is  the  rule  that  forbids  the 
owner  of  a  valuable  book  to  tamper  with  it  in 
any  way,  even  though  he  should  think  and  can 
prove  to  his  own  satisfaction  that  he  has  greatly 
improved  its  appearance  by  the  process.  Hence 
the  stripping  off  of  an  old  card-board  binding  to 
make  way  for  a  '  dream '  by  Zaehnsdorf  or  some 
other  master  of  the  craft  may  end  in  a  bookish 
disaster." 

It  may  be  remarked,  parenthetically,  that  even 
the  best  binders  need  specific  directions  not  only 
as  to  margins  but  as  to  the  lettering  on  the 
back.  It  is  an  old  story  among  bibliophiles  that 
a  man  who  had  a  valuable  and  uncut  set  of 
Brantome,  and  who  intrusted  it  to  an  artistic 
but  somewhat  ignorant  binder,  received  it 
with  the  leaves  carefully  cut  and  the  volumes 
inscribed  :     Bran    Tome    I.,   Bran     Tome    IL, 

252 


The  Diucrsions  of  a  Book-looer 

Bran  Tome  III.,  and  so  on  to  the  ninth  vol- 
ume!* 

The  owner  of  a  certain  book  described  in  a 
catalogue  which  has  just  been  opened  was  wise 
in  his  generation.  The  book  is  Poetry  for 
Children,  by  Charles  and  Mary  Lamb,  in  two 
volumes,  "  original  gray  boards,  with  red  roan 
backs  lettered  'Leicester's  Poetry,'"  printed  for 
M.  J,  Godwin,  at  the  Juvenile  Library,  London, 
1809.  The  cataloguer  swells  with  pride  over 
the  fact  that  it  is  "  a  very  beautiful,  clean  copy, 
and  the  only  one  known  in  its  original  condition." 
The  modest  price  is — three  thousand  dollars. 

When  we  consider  the  comparatively  small  at- 
tention paid  to  Lamb  in  his  lifetime  by  any  except 
devoted  personal  friends,  his  humble  surround- 
ings, his  poverty,  it  seems  strange  that  a  copy  of 
one  of  his  least  important  works  should  now  com- 
mand such  an  extraordinary  price.  The  remark- 
able interest  which  the  world  of  to-day  feels  in 
his  personality  cannot  be  ascribed  only  to  the 
charm  of  his  writings ;  it  is  due  to  the  humanity 
of  the  man,  even  more  enduring  than  his  mere 
literary  quality.  Recall  the  number  of  volumes 
which  have  been  written  about  him,  about  the 
individual  and  his  friends.  They  are  always 
Lamb's  friends,  and  we  seldom  find  him  grouped 

•  Essay  on  the  Art  of  Bookbinding,  Du  Bois,  36. 
253 


The  DiDersions  of  a  Book-looer 

among  the  friends  of  some  other  person.  And  it 
is  of  him  that  Carlyle  wrote,  cruelly  and  harshly : 
"Charles  Lamb  I  sincerely  believe  to  be  in  some 
considerable  degree  insane.  A  more  pitiful,  rick- 
ety, gasping,  staggering,  stammering  tomfool 
I  do  not  know.  He  is  witty  by  denying  tru- 
isms and  abjuring  good  manners.  His  speech 
wriggles  hither  and  thither  with  an  incessant 
painful  fluctuation ;  not  an  opinion  in  it,  or  a  fact, 
or  even  a  phrase,  that  you  can  thank  him  for; 
more  like  a  convulsion  fit  than  natural  systole 
and  diastole.  Besides,  he  is  now  a  confirmed, 
shameless  drunkard;  asks  vehemently  for  gin- 
and-water  in  strangers'  houses,  tipples  till  he  is 
utterly  mad,  and  is  only  not  thrown  out-of-doors 
because  he  is  too  much  despised  for  taking  such 
trouble  with  him."*  There  is  no  excuse  for  this 
abusiveness,  yet  Carlyle  did  not  modify  his  opin- 
ion even  in  his  Reminiscences,  but  he  added, 
"yet  something,  too,  of  humane,  ingenu- 
ous, pathetic,  sportfully  much-enduring."  Of 
course  no  one  at  this  time  needs  to  be  told  that 
the  stories  of  Lamb's  supposed  intemperance 
were  gross  exaggerations.^ 

I  have  before  me  now  an  interesting  relic  of 
the  Lambs.  It  is  a  letter  from  Mary  Lamb  to 
Hazlitt's  wife,  written  from  the  Temple,  October 

*  Two  Note-Books,  Grolier  Club  edition,  217. 

*  Vide  Procter's  Memoirs,  De  Quincey,  P.  G.  Patmore. 

254 


The   Dioersions   of  a  Book-looer 

2,  1811,  to  congratulate  "dear  Sarah"  on  the 
birth  of  a  son  who  afterwards  became  well  known 
as  an  author  and  editor.  "  Charles  sends  his 
love,"  she  says,  "  perhaps,  though,  he  will  write  a 
scrap  to  Hazlitt  at  the  end.  He  is  now  looking 
over  me.  He  is  always  in  my  way,  for  he  has  had 
a  month's  holydays  at  home,  but  I  am  happy  to 
say  they  end  on  Monday."  It  was  her  gentle  bit 
of  fun  about  the  brother  who  loved  her  and 
teased  her  so.  The  "  scrap  "  to  Hazlitt  is  written 
on  the  same  sheet.     He  says: 

"Dear  Hazlitt, — I  cannot  help  accompanying  my 
sister's  congratulations  to  Sarah  with  some  of  my  own 
to  you  on  this  happy  occasion  of  a  man-child  being 
bom.  Delighted  Fancy  already  sees  him  some  future 
rich  Alderman  or  opulent  merchant,  painting,  perhaps, 
a  little  in  his  leisure  hours  for  amusement,  like  the  late 
H.  Bunbury,  Esq.  Pray,  are  the  Winterslow  Estates 
entailed  ?  I  am  afraid  lest  the  young  dog  when  he  grows 
up  should  cut  down  the  woods  and  leave  no  groves 
for  widows  to  take  their  lonesome  solace  in.  The  Wem 
Estate,  of  course,  can  only  devolve  on  him  in  case  of 
your  brother  leaving  no  male  issue.  Well,  my  blessing 
&  heaven's  be  upon  him  &  make  him  like  his  father, 
with  something  a  better  temper  and  a  smoother  head 
of  hair,  and  then  all  the  men  &  women  must  love  him. 
Martin  &  the  Card-boys  join  in  congratulations.  Love 
to  Sarah.     Sorry  we  are  not  within  caudle -shot. 

"C.  Lamb." 

A  quaint  and  attractive  figure  must  he  have 
been  according  to  the  testimony  of  all  who  have 
recorded   their   impressions   of   him.     Patmore, 

255 


The  Diversions   of  a   Book-locer 

Carlyle,  and  Mr.  Le  Grice  all  refer  to  his  Jewish 
look.  Patmore  calls  it  a  Rabbinical  look,  due,  no 
doubt,  to  his  sallow  complexion,  his  black,  crispy 
hair,  and  his  large,  slightly  hooked  nose.  "The 
leanest  of  mankind,"  having  what  Tom  Hood 
called  "immaterial  legs,"  walking  slowly  with  a 
plantigrade  step,  he  must  have  drawn  to  himself 
the  attention  of  the  most  careless  of  wayfarers  in 
Russell  Street  as  he  wended  his  way  cityward. 
What  would  we  not  give  to  listen  for  a  few  mo- 
ments to  a  fragment  of  his  talk ;  but  the  phono- 
graph was  then  unknown,  and  if  there  had  been 
such  a  thing  in  the  room  he  would  never  have 
talked  to  it.  De  Quincey  records  that  in  miscel- 
laneous gatherings  he  said  little  unless  an  open- 
ing arose  for  a  pun.  The  fastidious  taste  of  the 
present  day  is  scornful  of  puns;  I  believe  that 
such  childish  things  are  altogether  unpopular. 
Would  we  now  tolerate  Charles  Lamb's  parano- 
masia  ? 

I  can  never  quite  make  out  whether  or  not  the 
opium-eater  really  liked  Lamb.  With  all  his  in- 
nocent pose  as  a  disinterested  and  eccentric  man 
of  letters  (I  believe  that  his  eccentricity  was  not 
wholly  unaffected),  De  Quincey  had  a  spice  of 
maliciousness  about  him,  and  while  he  had  much 
that  was  pleasant  to  say  about  Elia,  his  remarks 
concerning  Lamb's  "eclipse  of  sleep"  after  the 
wine  of  the  dinner  had  a  tinge  of  sarcastic  in- 

256 


The   Diversions   of  a   Book-loocr 

dulgence.  The  man  who  drank  laudanum  from 
a  decanter  was  rejoiced  to  find  a  compatriot  who 
absorbed  other  dangerous  fluids.  One  would  hard- 
ly care  to  have  his  post-prandial  slumber  given 
to  posterity  in  this  fashion:  "It  descended  upon 
him  as  softly  as  a  shadow.  In  a  gross  person, 
laden  with  superfluous  flesh,  and  sleeping  heavily, 
this  would  have  been  disagreeable ;  but  in  Lamb, 
thin  even  to  meagreness,  spare  and  wiry  as  an 
Arab  of  the  desert,  or  as  Thomas  Aquinas,  wasted 
by  scholastic  vigils,  the  affection  of  sleep  seemed 
rather  a  network  of  aerial  gossamer  than  of  earth- 
ly cobweb — more  like  a  golden  haze  falling  upon 
him  gently  from  the  heavens  than  a  cloud  ex- 
haling upward  from  the  flesh."  It  is  poetic,  but 
after  all  it  means  that  the  subject  of  this  dainty 
sketch  drank  more  than  was  good  for  him  at  din- 
ner, and  went  to  sleep  after  it.  But  De  Quincey 
was  prone  to  indulge  in  exaggerations  and  to  the 
giving  of  sly  stabs  to  his  luckless  acquaintances. 
Wonderful  master  of  English  speech  that  he  was, 
with  all  his  faults  we  love  him.  He  was  a  charm- 
ing old  rascal,  a  curiosity  of  literature,  a  "wee 
intellectual  wizard,"  as  Masson  calls  him;  like 
"  the  phantom  in  '  Hamlet,'  "  according  to  Hood ; 
and  of  him  saith  Thomas  Carlyle,  our  bitter  critic 
of  Lamb :  "  When  he  sate,  you  would  have  taken 
him  by  candle-light  for  the  beautifullest  little 
child,  blue  -  eyed,  sparkling  face,  had  there  not 

17  257 


The  Dioersions   of  a  Book-looer 

been  a  something,  too,  which  said,  '  Eccovi' — 
this  child  has  been  in  hell." 

In  the  cabinet  by  the  north  window  are  a  few 
letters,  all  in  the  delicate  chirography  and  bluish 
ink  of  the  wizard  of  the  laudanum-flask,  and  I 
am  fond  of  them.  One  is  enclosed  in  a  faded  en- 
velope, with  a  postage-stamp  of  half  a  century 
ago,  addressed  to  Raymond  Yates.  I  have  a 
sense  of  guilt  in  reproducing  it,  but  I  cannot  re- 
frain from  giving  it,  for  it  has  some  literary  in- 
terest, and  almost  everything  connected  with  this 
charming  man  of  letters  appeals  to  lovers  of 
books. 

"Edinburgh,  Monday,  June  g,  1845. 
"  Sir, — I  have  this  moment  received  your  note,  dated 
June  5,  by  a  messenger  from  the  Messrs.  Blackwood. 
You  do  me  too  much  honor  in  thinking  it  worth  your 
while  to  inquire  after  a  Life  of  Milton  on  the  ground 
(which  you  courteously  assign)  that  it  was  written  by 
m>self .  It  is  true  that  I  wrote  such  a  Life ;  but  it  could 
not  have  made  more  than  a  pamphlet  in  point  of  bulk ; 
and  I  fear  much  that  this  slender  size,  so  incommen- 
surate to  the  grandeur  of  the  subject,  will  turn  out  to  be 
the  most  distinguished  of  its  merits.  It  was  written  in 
1 83 1,  and,  if  I  remember  rightly,  for  some  General 
Biographical  Series  then  issuing  under  the  auspices  of 
the  Society  (I  know  not  whether  now  defunct  or 
whether  in  fact  it  ever  had  a  real  existence)  '  for  diffus- 
ing useful  knowledge.'  But  in  whatever  body  or  shad- 
ow or  fiction  of  a  shadow  the  property  of  the  work 
might  finally  have  vested — my  own  communication 
with  that  dim  Abstraction  (doubtful  then  to  my  mind, 
and  more  so  through  a  cloud  of  years)  lay  through  Mr. 
Charles  Knight,  the  publisher,  at  that  time  living  in 

258 


The   Diocrsions  of   a  Book-looer 

Pall  Mall  East.  In  treating  so  lightly  a  sketch,  which 
(considering  its  theme)  ought  to  have  been  worth  a 
graver  notice,  I  assure  you  that  I  speak  most  unaffect- 
edly; it  may  happen  to  be  better  than  I  suspect;  but 
the  truth  is  that  I  have  never  seen  it  in  print.  Nor 
should  I  feel  sure  that  it  was  in  print  were  it  not  that 
some  years  ago  I  observed  four  or  five  times  in  news- 
papers a  sentence  or  two  quoted  as  from  some  recent 
Life  of  Milton  which  I  recognized  as  my  own  both  in  re- 
spect to  the  thought  and  to  the  expression.  If  by  its 
subject  it  ought  to  have  been  good,  on  the  other  hand, 
by  the  circumstances  of  its  composition  it  ought  to  be 
intolerably  bad.  For  it  was  written,  as  too  often  what 
I  write  is  written,  without  any  books  for  reference; 
under  sufferings  which  would  now  be  indescribable — 
having  faded  even  to  my  own  memory  through  their 
own  intensity,  and  under  so  humble  an  inspiration  as 
that  furnished  by  certain  owners  of  gold.  The  sketch 
of  Shakespeare  in  the  Enc.  Brit.,  which  you  mention  in 
terms  too  flattering,  was  also  mine.  But  it  stands  in 
all  respects  on  the  same  level,  I  imagine,  with  the  Mil- 
ton, and  also  (as  at  the  moment  I  recollect)  with  a 
Pope  published  in  the  same  vast  Miscellany.  It  was 
written  with  even  more  want  of  books  for  reference; 
it  was  written  in  the  intervals  of  suffering  greater  if 
possible;  and  it  was  written  upon  a  motive  not  at  all 
more  elevated,  unless  Scotch  bank-notes  have  any 
precedence  in  point  of  dignity  over  English  sovereigns. 
I  remain,  sir,  with  thanks  for  the  interest  you  express 
in  anything  I  have  written, 

"Your  obedient  humble  servant, 

"Thomas  de  Quincey." 

In  a  moment  of  carelessness  I  once  spoke  of  De 
Quincey  as  an  "  opium-swiller,"  for  which  I  was 
censured  by  judicious  friends  who  thought  the 
epithet  vulgar.     The  word  "swiller"  is  not  ele- 

259 


The  Diocrsions   of  a  Book-looer 

gant,  I  confess,  but  it  was  used  by  Sir  Walter 
Scott  and  other  well-recognized  masters  of  Eng- 
lish, and  I  think  that  it  accurately  describes  the 
methods  of  the  strange  creature  who  dealt  with 
words  as  well  as  with  opium  in  an  Oriental  fash- 
ion. In  1 841,  his  biographer  tells  us,  he  "  reach- 
ed something  like  five  thousand  drops  of  lauda- 
num per  day."  James  Payn  relates  an  incident 
at  luncheon,  when  he  was  about  to  pour  out  a 
glass  from  a  decanter  which  stood  next  to  him, 
and  Miss  De  Quincey  whispered :  "  You  must  not 
take  that ;  it  is  not  port  wine,  as  you  think."  It 
was,  in  fact,  laudanum,  to  which  De  Quincey 
presently  helped  himself  with  the  greatest  sang- 
froid} 

"A  strangely  fragile,  unsubstantial,  and  pue- 
rile figure,  wherein,  however,  resided  one  of  the 
most  potent  and  original  spirits  that  ever  fre- 
quented a  tenement  of  clay."  Thus  saith  John 
Hill  Burton,  and  with  this  concise  characteriza- 
tion of  him  we  may  say  farewell  to  him  for  a 
season. 

*  Payn's  Recollections,  Cornhill  Magazine,  April,  1884. 


XIV 

Theatrical    literature. 

ALMOST  all  men  are  fond  of  reading  about 
I  actors  and  actresses,  dramatists  and  plays. 
The  love  of  the  mimic  world  is  common  to 
prince  and  peasant,  to  noblemen  and  to  no- 
bodies. Hazlitt  reminds  us  of  the  saying  of 
Rochefoucauld,  that  the  reason  why  lovers 
were  so  fond  of  each  other's  company  was  that 
they  were  always  talking  about  themselves,  and 
adds  that  the  same  reason  almost  might  be 
given  for  the  interest  we  feel  in  talking  about 
plays  and  players;  plays  are  the  "brief  chroni- 
cles of  the  time,"  the  epitome  of  human  life 
and  manners.  It  is  interesting  to  observe  the 
abundance  of  the  literature  which  has  grown 
up  about  the  stage,  the  number  of  columns 
which  have  been  written  about  matters  theatri- 
cal— gossip,  criticism,  and  history.  We  buy  and 
we  read  these  books  with  avidity,  and  many  of 
us  are  thereby  led  into  gross  extravagance  in  the 
acquisition  of  "dramatic  portraits"  wherewith 
to  adorn  and  to  "extra-illustrate"  them. 
261 


The   Diuersions  of  a  Book-looer 

One  form  of  theatrical  literature  seems  to  have 
become  obsolete;  we  do  not  now  publish  col- 
lections of  plays  like  those  of  Dolby,  Bell,  and 
Mrs.  Inchbald,  so  common  a  century  or  so  ago. 
Somehow  one  of  these  collections  is  as  drear}'-  a 
thing  as  one  would  care  to  encounter  on  a  rainy 
day  in  a  country-house.  It  is  strange  that  one 
never  finds  anything  of  interest  in  such  cir- 
cumstances. A  young  lady  once  told  me 
that  she  was  compelled  to  spend  a  stormy  Sun- 
day in  an  English  inn,  whose  library  consisted 
of  Wright's  Farriery  and  The  Lives  of  Cox- 
well  and  Glaister,  the  aeronauts,  since  which 
memorable  day  she  has  been  an  encyclopaedia 
of  useful  information  about  horses  and  balloons. 

I  have  often  tried  to  enjoy  these  collections 
of  plays,  but  the  effort  has  been  fruitless.  Some 
students  may  read  them,  but  not  many,  I  am 
sure.  In  our  time  the  judicious  have  decided 
that  few  plays  are  worth  collecting  —  acting- 
plays  at  least.  My  experience  is  that  good  act- 
ing-plays make  poor  literature,  and  good  reading- 
plays  very  poor  things  to  listen  to  or  to  behold ; 
but  I  am  not  prepared  to  copyright  this  profound 
observation,  as  I  have  an  impression  that  it  has 
been  made  by  large  numbers  of  people  who  were 
confident  that  it  was  original  with  them. 

I  cannot  believe  that  many  can  now  take 
pleasure  in  the  comedies  of  Congreve,  for  ex- 
262 


I 


The    Dioersions  of  a  Book-loocr 

ample,  unless  they  happen  to  be  students  of  the 
life  and  literature  of  his  period.  One  of  his 
most  faithful  admirers  admits  that  "his  plots 
hang  fire,  are  difficult  to  follow,  and  are  not 
worth  remembering."  Mr.  Henley  speaks  of 
his  "  deliberate  and  unmitigable  baseness  of 
morality,"  and  Thackeray  refers  to  "his  tawdry 
playhouse  taper."  His  grossness  of  speech  may 
be  forgiven,  because  it  was  common  in  his  time ; 
but  I  complain  chiefly  of  the  utter  worthlessness 
of  his  compositions — worthlessness  when  viewed 
in  the  spirit  of  this  comparatively  decent  age. 
It  revolts  me  to  hear  or  to  read  the  talk  of  some 
men  about  his  "sparkling  dialogue"  and  his 
"delicate  raillery";  his  sparkle  is  that  of  the 
proverbial  rotten  mackerel,  which  stinks  and 
shines.  Yet  Mr.  G.  S.  Street  rather  implies 
that  Congreve's  work  was  much  better  than 
Sheridan's  in  the  "School  for  Scandal,"  and 
he  sneers  at  Tom  Robertson's  "Caste,"  which 
he  calls  "an  even  river  of  sloppy  sentiment, 
where  the  acme  of  chivalrous  delicacy  is  to 
refrain  from  lighting  a  cigarette  in  a  woman's 
presence,  and  where  the  triumph  of  humor  is 
for  a  guardsman  to  take  a  kettle  off  the  fire." 
He  may  be  right  about  "Caste,"  which  does 
not  seem  to  me  as  delightful  as  it  did  a  gener- 
ation ago;  but  to  put  Sheridan's  great  com- 
edy after  Congreve's!  Perhaps  it  is  only  the 
263 


The  Dicersions   of  a  Book-loDer 

clever  fooling  of  a  whimsical  writer  who,  like 
the  Major-General  in  the  Pirates  of  Penzance, 
has  "a  pretty  taste  for  paradox,"  and  who 
asserts  and  maintains  a  doubtful  proposition 
merely  for  the  sport  of  it. 

Most  of  these  dramas  of  the  so-called  Restora- 
tion, the  works  of  Van  Brugh,  Wycherley,  Con- 
greve,  and  their  contemporaries,  have  animation 
enough,  but  there  is  nothing  real  about  them; 
they  teach  nothing;  there  is  no  heart  in  them; 
they  are  harsh,  unpleasant,  with  an  "under- 
current of  tartness."  As  M.  Taine  says,  "There 
streams  up  from  all  these  scenes  a  smell  of 
cooking,  the  noise  of  riot,  the  odor  of  a  dung- 
hill."^ 

Lamb  tried  hard  to  defend  Congreve  in  that 
pleasant  essay  On  the  Artificial  Comedy  of  the 
Last  Century,  but  it  was  an  unsuccessful  effort. 
"  The  great  art  of  Congreve,"  says  the  delightful 
Elia,  "is  especially  shown  in  this,  that  he  has 
entirely  excluded  from  his  scenes  (some  little 
generosities  in  the  part  of  Angelica  perhaps 
excepted)  not  only  anything  like  a  faultless 
character,  but  any  pretensions  to  goodness  or 
good  feelings  whatsoever."  Upon  this  I  move 
for  judgment. 

We   may   find   material   for   a   due   compre- 

^  History  of  English  Literature,  vol.  ii.,  417. 
264 


The  Diversions  of  a  Book-looer 

hension  of  the  tastes  of  our  ancestors — our 
English  ancestors,  from  whom  we  inherit  our 
language,  if  not  our  lives — in  turning  over  the 
pages  of  the  third  edition  of  Plays  Written  by 
the  Late  Ingenious  Mrs.  Behn,  published  in  1724, 
"printed  for  Mary  Poulson,  and  sold  by  A. 
Bettesworth  in  Pater -noster  Row,  and  F.  Clay 
without  Temple-Bar."  They  used  that  word 
"ingenious"  in  those  days  rather  more  freely 
than  we  do,  and  I  suppose  it  meant  witty  and 
clever.  My  copy  of  the  book  has  the  old  calf 
binding  and  the  elaborate  book  -  plate  of  one 
"George  Raper,  Gent,"  but  it  lacks  the  portrait, 
and  is  therefore  only  a  specimen  of  the  disjecta 
membra  of  collectors.  Afra,  Aphra,  Aphara,  or 
Ayfara  Behn,  whose  Christian  name  was  spelled 
in  divers  ways,  has  long  been  celebrated  in  an 
unpleasant  way ;  but,  although  she  was  certainly 
without  delicacy,  she  was  really  ingenious  in 
the  sense  of  her  own  time — and  she  was  "  the 
first  female  writer  who  lived  by  her  pen  in 
England."^  I  am  not  positive  that  her  fame 
ought  not  to  rest  more  surely  upon  the  fact  that 
she  introduced  milk-punch  into  England.  Mr. 
Gosse  admits  that  her  plays  are  coarse,  and  he 
does  not  attempt  "to  defend  her  manners  as 
correct  or  her  attitude  to  the  world  as  delicate." 

*  Edmund  Gosse,  Dictionary  of  National  Biography. 
265 


The  Dioersions   of  a  Book-locer 

He  calls  her  the  George  Sand  of  the  Restoration, 
the  dihe  mattre  to  such  men  as  Dryden,  Otway, 
and  Southerne,  who  all  honored  her  with  their 
friendship.  Her  novels,  included  in  the  same 
edition,  are  perhaps  worse  than  her  dramatic 
effusions.  It  is  not  easy  for  us  to  comprehend 
how  such  things  could  ever  have  attracted  the 
favorable  notice  of  decent  people  or  could  ever 
have  been  regarded  as  ornaments  of  literature. 

The  records  of  the  stage  in  the  later  eighteenth 
and  earlier  nineteenth  centuries  are  filled  rather 
too  generously  with  the  accounts  of  actresses 
and  their  relations  to  royalty.  Among  them  is 
the  Public  and  Private  Life  of  that  Celebrated  Ac- 
tress, Miss  Bland,  otherwise  Mrs.  Lord,  or  Mrs. 
Jordan,  which  purports  to  have  been  written 
"by  a  confidential  friend  of  the  departed,"  and 
was  published  by  J.  Dunscombe,  19  Little  Queen 
Street,  London,  about  1830.  Mr.  Joseph  Knight 
says  that  it  is  somewhat  scandalous  and  ex- 
ceedingly rare.  My  own  copy  has  in  it  an  au- 
tograph letter  of  the  fair  Dora,  Dorothea,  or 
Dorothy — for  she  had  almost  as  many  Christian 
names  as  surnames — and  it  has  been  "  extended  " 
to  two  volumes  by  the  insertion  of  many  por- 
traits, views,  and  old  play-bills  of  her  day.  As 
is  usual  with  portraits  of  that  period,  no  one  of 
Mrs.  Jordan's  portraits  bears  any  resemblance  to 
any  of  the  others.     Sometimes  one  is  inclined 

266 


The  Diversions   of  a  Book'loDer 

to  believe  that  the  fabricators  of  these  curious 
pictures  of  noted  people  may  have  fallen  into 
the  habit  of  doing  what  some  genius  did  for 
my  first  edition  of  Ford's  True  George  Washing- 
ton, where  you  may  discover  a  portrait  labelled 
"Nelly  Custis,"  which  is  only  a  familiar  repre- 
sentation of  that  tragic  muse,  the  great  Sarah 
Siddons.  All  of  the  portraits  of  the  fascinating 
Dora,  whose  person,  said  HazHtt,  "was  large, 
soft,  and  generous,  like  her  soul,"*  are  the  like- 
nesses of  a  pretty  woman,  and  it  can  easily  be 
understood  why  the  chuckle  -  headed  Duke  of 
Clarence,  later  his  Majesty  King  William  IV., 
found  her  irresistible,  and  their  ten  Fitzclarence 
children,  including  Lord  Adolphus,  Rear  Ad- 
miral, and  George  Augustus  Frederick,  Earl  of 
Munster,  became  ornaments  of  the  proudly  bom 
nobility  of  Great  Britain.  The  Duke  allowed 
her  ;^iooo  a  year,  but,  at  the  suggestion  of 
George  III.,  is  said  to  have  written  to  her  pro- 
posing a  reduction  to  ;!^5oo.  Her  answer  con- 
sisted of  the  bottom  part  of  a  play-bill  bearing 
these  words:  "No  money  returned  after  the 
rising  of  the  curtain."  With  all  her  faults  and 
frailties,  she  must  have  been  far  better  worth 
knowing  than  the  royal  noodle,  yclept  in  com- 
mon parlance  "Silly  Billy,"  who  honored  her 

^Dramatic  Essays,  49-50.     Edition  of  1851. 
267 


The  Dioersions  of  a  Book-louer 

with  what   he   was  pleased   to  call  his   affec- 
tions. 

In  the  same  book  there  is  a  colored  portrait  of 
a  woman  whose  beauty  is  striking  and  unde- 
niable, a  saucy  sort  of  beauty,  and  she  became 
the  occasion  of  one  of  those  national  scandals 
which  from  time  to  time  have  adorned  the 
annals  of  the  British  army.  I  do  not  mean  to 
assert  that  such  scandals  are  peculiar  to  the 
political  history  of  our  cousins  over -sea,  for 
there  is  a  man  still  living,  honored  as  a  soldier 
and  as  a  lawyer,  who  could  tell,  if  he  would,  a 
story  of  one  of  our  administrations  and  of  the 
fall  of  a  certain  cabinet  officer  which  would  be 
as  interesting  as  any  romance  ever  written.  He 
told  it  once  to  me,  in  the  leisure  hours  of  a  long 
railway  journey,  and  I  am  sorely  tempted  to 
betray  the  confidence  of  that  chat  over  the 
perpetual  cigars  of  a  Pullman  private  compart- 
ment, but  I  sternly  resist.  Comedy  and  tragedy, 
with  the  ruin  of  a  Presidential  candidacy,  were 
strangely  mingled  in  that  graphic  narrative ;  the 
passions,  the  jealousies,  the  rivalries  of  politics 
were  all  depicted  vividly  upon  that  canvas 
which  he  unrolled  before  me  as  we  smoked  and 
talked  in  the  delightful  unreserve  of  a  friendly 
communion.  But  there  are  living  persons  who 
might  suffer  if  the  truth  were  told,  and  I  re- 
spect the  confidences  of  my  friend,  who  will,  I 

268 


The  Diuersions  of  a  Book-loocr 

hope,  leave  some  record  of  that  curious  episode 
in  our  political  history.  Returning  to  the  por- 
trait, it  is  one  of  the  many  counterfeit  presenti- 
ments of  the  notorious  Mary  Anne  Clarke,  ac- 
tress, who  died  as  late  as  1852,  at  the  respect- 
able age  of  seventy  -  four.  Who  can  imagine 
that  pretty  person  at  seventy-four?  She  en- 
joyed the  protection,  if  one  may  call  it  so,  of  that 
renowned  warrior-son  of  King  George  III.,  the 
illustrious  Frederick  Augustus,  Duke  of  York 
and  Albany,  who  became  Bishop  of  Osnaburg 
at  the  age  of  six  months  (fairly  young  for  a 
church  dignitary)  and  commander-in-chief  of  the 
army,  without  a  victory  to  his  credit,  at  thirty- 
five,  after  a  career  in  the  field  which  makes 
the  memory  of  James  Wilkinson  respectable. 

Somewhere  in  the  mass  of  miscellaneous  mat- 
ter relegated  to  the  dark  comers  of  the  hall  I 
might  find  Mary  Anne's  Authentic  Memoirs,  sl 
shabby  old  volume,  with  an  autograph  letter  of 
hers  inserted  therein,  if  I  had  the  patience  to 
search  for  it.  It  is  quite  a  delight  now  and  then 
to  burrow  in  the  purlieus  and  to  discover  for- 
gotten prizes.  In  a  newspaper  I  saw  recently  an 
atrocious  cut  representing  a  house  on  fire,  the 
firemen  heroically  struggling  with  the  problem, 
and  the  owner  calmly  reading  a  small  volume, 
saying,  "Why,  this  fire  is  a  good  thing;  I  have 
found  a  book  I  lost  ten  years  ago."     At  all 

269 


The  Diocrsions   of  a  Book-looer 

events,  Mary  Anne  had  a  brief  career,  almost 
unrecorded,  upon  what  are  called  "the  boards," 
and  suddenly  she  bloomed  as  the  possessor  of  a 
great  house  in  Gloucester  Place,  keeping  ten 
horses  and  twenty  servants,  "including  three 
professed  men-cooks,"  whatever  that  may  mean. 
She  received  large  sums  of  money  for  her  in- 
fluence in  obtaining  appointments  in  the  army, 
and  somehow  the  Duke  of  York  made  the  ap- 
pointments, although  he  was  acquitted  by  Par- 
liament of  the  charge  of  corruption  preferred 
against  him.  Perhaps  the  Duke  was  only  an 
easy-going  dupe,  misguided  by  his  fondness  for 
the  fair  Clarke,  and  I  do  not  propose  to  try 
his  case  over  again  at  this  late  day,  for  I  am 
glad  that  he  escaped  conviction,  because  he  did 
much  for  the  comfort  of  the  soldiers  and  for 
the  general  improvement  of  the  service,  despite 
his  inefficiency  as  a  military  commander.  As 
for  Mary  Anne,  her  acceptance  of  ;i^7ooo  and 
a  pension  of  ;^40o  a  year  for  suppressing  her 
edition  of  the  royal  lover's  letters  makes  me 
think  that  she  was  not  as  much  entitled  to  our 
admiration  as  poor  Dora  Jordan,  the  mistress 
of  William  IV,  who,  as  far  as  I  can  find  out, 
never  did  harm  to  any  one. 

There  is  a  distinction  between  theatrical  lit- 
erature and  dramatic  literature,  as  Mr.  Robert 
Lowe  points  out  in  his  Bibliographical  Account. 

270 


The   Dioersions   of   a   Book-Iooer 

Dramatic  literature  deals  with  the  plays  and 
theatrical  literature  with  the  players  and  not 
the  plays  themselves.  I  confess  that  I  am 
weary  of  the  dramatic,  of  the  interminable  con- 
troversies concerning  Shakespeare  -  Bacon,  and 
of  the  innumerable  essays  on  the  playwrights  of 
the  olden  time.  As  Lord  Beaconsfield  advised 
a  young  man  seeking  his  counsel  never  to  ask 
who  wrote  the  "Letters  of  Junius,"  T  would 
urge  a  friend  never  to  suggest  a  doubt  about 
the  fact  that  Shakespeare  wrote  his  own  plays. 
One  might  as  well  discuss  the  tariff  or  the  cur- 
rency; deadly  boredom  lies  in  all  such  topics. 

I  prefer  to  recur  to  modem  days,  and  to  take 
down  from  the  shelf  just  behind  the  writing- 
desk  the  volume  of  Lester  Wallack's  Memories 
of  Fifty  Years.  How  delightful  it  is  for  a  fairly 
old  New-Yorker  to  recall  the  days  when  the 
handsome  Lester  was  our  object  of  sincere  adora- 
tion, the  preux  chevalier  of  the  stage,  the  one  act- 
or who  attracted  the  love  and  the  admiration  of 
all  of  us  adolescents.  No  one  can  now  rival  him 
in  our  middle-aged  affections.  I  am  not  one  of 
those  who  are  always  prating  about  the  superi- 
ority of  the  actors  of  by-gone  days,  for  I  find 
many  who  carry  forward  the  ancient  traditions, 
but  Lester  Wallack  was  unapproachable  in  his 
peculiar  sphere;  he  was  always  a  gentleman  on 
the  stage,  and  unafifectedly  so,  relying  on  no 

271 


The  Dicersions  of  a  Book-loocr 

tricks  of  costume  or  affectations  of  speech.  For 
this  reason  we  boys  who  used  to  save  our  quar- 
ters to  buy  an  occasional  seat  in  the  old  theatre 
at  Broadway  and  Thirteenth  Street  learned  how 
to  behave  ourselves,  although  we  did  not  have 
the  chance  of  doing  all  those  delightful  things 
which  Wallack  did  so  gracefully,  because,  some- 
how, we  never  found  ourselves  in  such  delightful 
situations.  Had  we  been  able  to  encounter  the 
simple  problems  presented  in  the  Wallack  plays 
we  were  confident  that  we  could  have  borne  ofiE 
the  laurels  just  as  easily  and  as  jauntily  as  Lester 
Wallack  bore  them,  I  used  to  dream  of  his  side- 
whiskers,  so  contemporaneous  and  convincing; 
and  his  legs  were  almost  poetic.  Who  that  ever 
saw  him  in  "  Rosedale,"  or  in  "The  Veteran," 
or  in  any  of  the  standard  plays  which  are  never 
produced  in  these  degenerate  times,  can  ever  for- 
get him! 

It  is  probable  that  play-goers  of  this  genera- 
tion would  stare  in  dissatisfied  astonishment  at 
the  plays  and  players  of  forty  years  ago  and  call 
them  stupid  and  prosy.  That  is  the  experience 
of  all  times,  and  the  luxurious  Roman  who  sat  in 
bored  silence  through  the  "  Heauton-Timorou- 
menos"  of  the  popular  Publius  Terentius  Afer 
may  have  regretted ' '  The  Frogs  "  of  Aristophanes, 
Our  revered  fathers  used  to  shake  their  heads 
even  at  Wallack,  and  thought  that  all  the  dra- 

272 


The  Dioersions   of  a  Book-looer 

matic  performances  of  the  sixties  were  degener- 
ate. So  we  have  with  us  even  now  the  praisers 
of  past  times  who  sneer  at  Ternina,  Nordica,  and 
Melba,  and  tell  us  how  much  better  Jenny  Lind 
was,  and  how  infinitely  superior  the  piping  tones 
of  Mario  were  to  the  manly  notes  of  Jean  de 
Reszke.  We  gray-bearded  devotees  of  reminis- 
cence easily  recall  the  alleged  wickedness  of  a 
certain  play  called  "The  Black  Crook,"  wherein 
the  loveliness  of  the  female  form  divine  was  dis- 
played in  a  libera],  gorgeous,  and  spectacular 
fashion,  but  when  we  compare  it  with  the  pres- 
ent-day productions  of  burlesques  and  operettas, 
the  light  artillery  of  the  drama,  the  old  show 
seems  almost  Diana-like  in  its  modesty.  Whith- 
er are  we  tending?  When  I  dream  of  what  may 
come  three  decades  hence  I  am  inclined  to  hide 
myself  in  the  retired  precincts  of  the  Century 
Club  and  blush  furiously.  It  is  all  a  matter  of 
custom,  but  I  cannot  help  feeling  a  sense  of  sor- 
row at  the  decline  of  good  taste  when  I  put  in 
parallel  columns  the  coarse  and  common  crudi- 
ties of  Weber  and  Fields  and  the  sweet  dignity 
of  the  plays  which  used  to  fill  the  old  Wallack 
Theatre  with  crowds  of  cultured  people.  Yet  I 
go  to  Weber  &  Fields',  and  I  laugh  at  their  ri- 
diculous antics,  while  at  home  I  sigh  over  the 
decline  of  the  theatre  and  mourn  over  the  de- 
parted glories  of  the  legitimate  drama. 

i8  273 


The  Dioersions  of  a   Book-looer 

I  find  in  my  copy  of  Lester  Wallack's  Memories 
a  fairly  curious  document  signed  with  the  name 
of  Colley  Gibber  in  his  own  autograph,  which  I 
picked  up  at  an  auction  sale,  and  which,  with 
some  fifty  others,  has  been  inlaid  by  Mr.  Moore, 
of  Bradstreet's,  and  bound  up  in  company  with 
many  portraits.     It  reads : 

"Property  Bill,  Saturday,  Nov.  ye  12th,  Friday.  Lan- 
cashire Witches — 

24  Bunches  of  Laurell  for  ye  Tree 0:3:0 

For  a  large  Earthen  Pan  and  Two  Basons     .     .  0:1  :o 

For  Resons  and  Almons  As  Usual 0:0:9 

Pack  Thread  for  ye  Flying 0:0:4 

Gun  Powder  for  Mr.  Johnson 0:0:3 

Lightning 0:0:6 

Blood 0:0:2 

Six  Shillings 0:6:0 

B.  Booth, 
Rob.  Wilks, 

C.  Gibber." 

Here  is  also  the  programme  of  that  perform- 
ance of  "Hamlet"  given  in  Wallack's  honor  on 
the  evening  of  May  21,  1888,  when,  with  Booth 
and  Barrett,  Frank  Mayo  and  John  Gilbert,  in 
the  company,  Joseph  Jefferson  appeared  as  First 
Grave  -  digger  and  Florence  as  Second  Grave- 
digger.  It  bears  the  pencilled  inscription,  "John 
Gilbert;  Lester  Wallack,  with  best  wishes," 
bringing  back  the  memory  of  one  of  the  most 
sterling  men  and  accomplished  actors  of  his  day. 
274 


The   Dioersions  of  a  Book-loDer 

John  Gilbert  gave  a  dignity  to  his  calling  and 
made  men  understand  that  the  actor  could  be  an 
artist  as  surely  and  as  truly  as  a  great  painter 
or  a  sculptor  is  an  artist.  We  who  are  famil- 
iar with  his  best  impersonations  will  always 
carry  with  us  a  feeling  of  satisfaction  that  we 
were  permitted  to  enjoy  the  charm  of  his  per- 
sonality and  the  delightful  work  of  a  master  of 
his  art. 

There  was  old  George  Holland,  too,  whose 
skip  and  snuffle  used  to  seem  so  irresistibly 
comic,  and  whose  fame  was  queerly  perpetu- 
ated in  connection  with  the  popular  name  of 
one  of  New  York's  churches  —  "The  Little 
Church  Around  the  Comer."  The  story  is  too 
familiar  for  repetition.  Holland's  Memorial, 
published  in  187 1,  enlarged  by  Augustin  Daly  by 
added  portraits,  play-bills,  pictures  of  theatres, 
and  autographs,  so  that  it  comprises  two  quarto 
volumes,  fell  into  my  hands  when  Daly's  treas- 
ures were  dispersed,  and  it  is  like  going  back  to 
boyhood  to  glance  over  its  pages.  But  if  I  tried 
to  give  an  idea  of  its  contents  I  would  exhaust 
the  patience  of  the  "gentle  reader,"  and  I  for- 
bear. For  all  details  of  New  York's  theatres  in 
those  remote  days  I  refer  you  to  Laurence  Hut- 
ton  and  his  delightful  books. 


XV 


Of  editions  de  luxe,  old  booksellers,  quotations,  and 
indexes. 

DURING  the  past  few  years  we  have  been 
persecuted  continually  by  publishers  with 
what  are  styled  editions  de  luxe — a  phrase  which 
ought  to  be  banished  from  our  language.  It 
should  never  have  been  admitted  to  the  pages 
of  the  Century  Dictionary,  a  ponderous  but 
useful  compilation  about  which  I  feel,  as  Bill 
Nye  said  he  did:  "I  like  it  immensely.  It  is 
quite  thrilling  in  places,  and  although  somewhat 
jerky  in  style  and  verbose,  perhaps,  its  word- 
painting  is  accurate  and  delightful."  The  Cen- 
tury adds  to  its  definition  the  truthful  and  signif- 
icant remark  that  "  editions  de  luxe  are  usually 
sold  by  subscription." 

We  who  have  suffered  the  assaults  of  the 
subscription  agent,  that  insidious  product  of 
modem  civilization,  his  unwarranted  invasions 
of  our  privacy,  his  shameless  intrusions  upon 
us  at  our  places  of  business,  and  his  stubborn 
refusals  to  take  himself  off  with  his  delusive 

276 


The  Dioersions  of  a  Book-looer 

specimen  pages,  have  good  reason  to  admit 
the  fact  alleged  by  the  Century,  with  a  sense  of 
mortification  at  having  often  pusillanimously 
surrendered  to  his  arts  in  sheer  weariness  of 
spirit.  It  is  pitiful  to  read  of  the  methods 
which  these  sharks  employed  in  the  case  of  Mr. 
Peter  Marie,  who  was  made  to  buy  books  at 
ten  times  their  value  by  a  series  of  bunco-like 
operations  which  would  make  a  Bulgarian  ban- 
dit blush  for  envy. 

When  the  copyright  of  some  famous  series  of 
books  has  expired,  the  astute  publisher  finds 
it  convenient  to  put  forth  a  new  edition,  print- 
ed upon  some  pretentiously  named  paper,  with 
"deckle  edges,"  containing  some  indifferent 
pictures  made  easily  and  inexpensively  by  the 
modern  methods  of  photography,  binding  it  in 
an  imitation  half-morocco  scarcely  to  be  dis- 
tinguished from  the  genuine,  and  announcing  it 
as  "limited  to  looo  copies."  If  some  scraps  of 
the  author's  handwriting  can  be  obtained,  a 
fragment  is  inserted  in  each  "set,"  and  we  have 
an  "Autograph  Edition."  The  unwary  pur- 
chaser may,  if  he  choose,  have  his  name  printed 
on  the  back  of  the  title-page,  where  it  is  falsely 
asserted  that  the  book  was  printed  by  Jones  & 
Co.  for  "John  Doe"  or  "Richard  Roe,"  as  the 
case  may  be.  Then  an  exorbitant  price  is  paid, 
the  "set"  reposes  upon  the  book-shelves  of  the 

277 


The  Diuersions   of  a  Book-looer 

buyer,  who  never  looks  at  it  again,  and  when, 
after  his  richly  deserved  bankruptcy,  the  library 
is  sent  to  the  auction-room,  the  second-hand 
book  -  dealer  carries  it  off  for  an  insignificant 
fraction  of  its  cost  to  the  original  victim. 

Men  have  begun  to  learn  the  truth  about  such 
matters  and  to  beware  of  the  book-agent.  I  have 
found  a  sure  way  to  rid  myself  of  the  pests.  I 
have  made  a  valid  and  subsisting  contract  with 
a  certain  man  to  buy  subscription  editions  only 
through  him,  and  I  never  buy  any  through  him. 
Of  course,  I  cannot  constitutionally  do  any  act 
tending  to  impair  the  obligation  of  a  contract. 

There  is  another  favorite  method  of  involv- 
ing a  book -lover  in  trouble  and  perplexity — 
the  bringing  forth  in  an  author's  lifetime  of  a 
"complete  edition"  of  his  works.  It  ought  to 
be  obvious  to  an  ordinary  intelligence  that  such 
a  thing  as  a  complete  edition  can  never  be 
produced  as  long  as  the  writer  retains  his  mind 
and  his  power  of  tongue  or  of  pen,  unless  for  a 
valuable  consideration  he  shall  have  promised, 
covenanted,  and  agreed  that  he  will  compose 
no  more.  As  I  have  already  confessed,  I  paid 
a  silly  price  for  twenty -two  volumes  of  Mark 
Twain,  and  as  Mark  fortunately  survived  and 
has  ever  since  continued — long  may  he  con- 
tinue!— to  turn  out  page  upon  page  of  fiction, 
humor,  and   philosophy,   I    must   needs   go  on 

278 


The   Diocrsions   of  a    Boob-looer 

squandering  money,  or  my  set  will  be  worthless 
when  it  is  passed  over  to  Bangs' s — or,  more  ac- 
curately, to  Anderson's,  for  the  old  house,  dear 
to  all  New  York  book  -  fanciers,  seems  to  be 
vanishing.  I  have  also  a  tale  of  woe  about 
Bret  Harte  and  Kipling. 

The  true  collector,  as  we  know,  does  not  oc- 
cupy his  mind  about  the  prospective  value  of 
his  accumulations,  and  we  know,  also,  that  the 
inheritors  of  his  stores  seldom  care  for  anything 
except  the  money-worth  of  the  volumes  which 
he  cherishes  so  fondly.  A  collector's  wife, 
proud  as  she  may  be  of  the  books  which  her 
spouse  has  gathered,  is  usually  impatient  with 
the  collection,  however  much  she  may  appreciate 
its  importance.  She  is  disturbed,  and  I  do  not 
blame  her,  because  of  its  unruly  interference 
with  the  neatness  of  the  menage,  and  its  capacity 
for  absorbing  all  that  tiresome  dust  which  is 
her  chief  enemy.  I  am  inclined  to  give  her  my 
sympathy.  She  has  ample  justification  for  her 
objections  to  the  litter  of  books  which  makes 
the  whole  house  seem  like  the  bewildering  lofts 
of  our  old  friend  Bukowski  of  iVrsenalsgaten,  in 
Stockholm,  and  I  know  of  nothing  more  dusty 
and  disorderly  than  they  are,  with  their  appal- 
ling but  attractive  mixture  of  books,  prints,  old 
furniture,  and  antiquities  of  every  description. 
I  have  just  found   a  newspaper   clipping   con- 

279 


The  Diversions  of  a  Book-loDer 

taining  some  truth.  The  writer,  who  lets  his 
pen  wander  playfully  on,  says:  "It  is  not 
often  that  a  book-collector's  wife  and  children 
share  in  his  peculiar  tastes.  The  good  woman 
who  has  groaned  for  years  at  the  increasing 
clutter,  and  who  has  asked  ironically  where 
she  is  to  put  the  latest  purchase,  has  now  her 
mild  revenge.  She  sends  for  an  auctioneer;  he 
makes  a  catalogue ;  he  carries  off  all  the  property 
by  the  cart-load ;  there  is  a  sale,  and  there  is  a 
mournful  scattering."  The  same  pleasant  writer 
reminds  us  that  circulation  is  the  condition  of 
collecting,  and  that  the  breaking-up  of  libra- 
ries is  the  life  of  that  charming  dissipation.  We 
must  not  mourn,  he  says,  too  much  at  the  dis- 
persion of  collections.  "  But  for  this,  we  should 
be  without  the  generous  guild  of  second-hand 
booksellers,  those  paragons  of  honorable  trades- 
men, who  were  never  known  to  charge  sixpence 
more  for  a  book  than  its  worth." 

This  is  what  Artemus  Ward  would  call  "in- 
tense sukkasm";  but  dealers  in  second-hand 
books  are  surely  entitled  to  some  return  for 
their  labors  and  troubles,  as  well  as  for  their 
knowledge  and  experience.  Their  prices,  I 
know,  are  curiously  elastic,  but  there  is  no 
standard  about  old  books,  and  a  regular  cus- 
tomer may  well  receive  more  consideration 
than   a   casual   buyer.     The   reference   to   the 

280 


The   Dioersions  of  a   Book-looer 

"second-hand"  men  reminds  me  that  not  only 
in  Nassau  Street,  but  even  in  Centre  Street,  we 
used  to  have  book-stalls.  There  they  were 
crowded  in  among  brass  and  copper  workers, 
paper  manufacturers,  type-founders,  and  Tombs 
lawyers.  There  were  some  of  these  dens  in 
Eighth,  Sixth,  Fourth,  and  Second  avenues. 
Like  most  New-Yorkers,  I  know  very  little  about 
my  own  city  outside  of  the  beaten  tracks  which 
we  traverse  from  home  to  office  and  on  the  va- 
rious social  errands  we  are  all  obliged  to  perform. 
Wherefore  I  am  unable  to  say  whether  or  not 
there  are  any  of  these  odd  stalls  remaining  at 
this  day,  I  do  not  find  them  now.  They  seem 
to  have  vanished  with  the  advent  of  that  icon- 
oclast, the  electric  -  railway  car.  The  writer 
quoted  above  wondered  how  the  old  men  who 
kept  them — it  was  always  an  old  man — could 
possibly  earn  a  living.  He  relates  that  a  curious 
inquirer  once  asked  one  of  these  ancient  myster- 
ies how  he  managed  it.  His  answer  contained 
a  volume  of  domestic  and  political  economy 
condensed  in  a  single  sentence.  "  I  make  a  liv- 
ing," said  he,  "by  selling  my  books  for  more 
than  I  pay  for  them,  and  save  money  by  liv- 
ing on  half  what  I  make." 

Those  who  care  for  such  things,  and  I  trust 
that  there  are  not  a  few  of  them,  will  derive 
much    enjoyment    from    the    reading    of    Mr. 

281 


The  Dicersions   of  a  Book-louer 

William  Loring  Andrews's  interesting  little  bro- 
chure called  The  Old  Booksellers  of  New  York, 
and  Other  Papers,  printed  in  1895 ;  and  I  am 
pleased  with  my  ownership  of  one  of  the  one 
hundred  and  forty- two  copies,  although  mine 
is  on  ordinary,  hand-made  paper.  I  bought  it 
for  the  contents,  and  the  merely  fanciful  incident 
of  Japan  paper  was  of  no  moment  to  me,  much 
as  I  admire  all  that  is  Japanese,  so  dear  to 
Howard  Mansfield  and  to  a  certain  lady  whom 
I  regard  most  highly.  Mansfield  is  well  known 
as  an  enthusiastic  expert  in  all  that  appertains 
to  the  art  of  the  Yankees  of  the  Orient,  and  en- 
joys the  distinction  of  having  at  least  three  dis- 
tinct fads,  which  must  make  him  ierque  be- 
atus — three  times  as  happy  as  any  other  man 
can  be. 

In  the  dainty  little  book  Mr.  Andrews  dis- 
courses delightfully  of  William  Go  wans,  of  Jo- 
seph Sabin,  of  John  Bradbum,  and  of  Francis 
Lawlor,  et  id  omne  genus;  and  he  says,  with  a 
slightly  plaintive  accent:  "Indulgence  in  fond 
recollections  of  by-gone  days  is  considered  a 
sign  of  approaching  senility,  and  we  are  assured 
that  the  present  days  are  a  vast  improvement 
upon  any  that  have  preceded  them."  Doubtless 
they  are — with  exceptions;  for  the  book-hunter 
with  a  slender  purse,  beyond  all  question,  has 
seen  his  best  days  in  this  or  any  other  land. 

282 


The  Diversions   of  a  Book-louer 

Alike  from  the   Quai  Voltaire,  Piccadilly,  and 
Nassau  Street, 

"...  the  fabled  treasure  flees, 
Grown  rarer  with  the  fleeting  years; 
In  rich  men's  shelves  they  take  their  ease." 

I  am  grieved,  however,  that  he  should  speak 
of  "the  wolf's  wild  howl  on  Onalaska's  shore," 
for  if  he  had  only  turned  aside  to  take  from  the 
shelf  his  copy  of  the  Pleasures  of  Hope  he  would 
have  discovered  that  the  thing  which,  according 
to  the  poet,  was  "wafted  across  the  wave's 
tumultuous  roar,"  was  "the  wolf's  long  howl 
from  Oonalaska  s  shore."  I  am  taking  my  quo- 
tation from  the  fifth  edition  of  Campbell's  poem, 
the  copy  which  he  gave  to  his  sister  Mary. 

I  do  not  pretend  to  set  myself  up  as  a  miracle 
of  accuracy;  unfortunately,  I  have  been  caught 
in  many  blunders,  and  I  have  covered  myself 
with  sackcloth  and  ashes  whenever  I  have  been 
detected  in  misquoting.  I  admit  the  wisdom  of 
Notes  and  Queries  in  the  edict  "Be  accurate" 
and  "always  verify  quotations  if  possible,"  as 
well  as  the  soundness  of  the  advice  that  one 
should  "on  discovering  a  misquotation  or  an 
erroneous  reference  in  one  of  your  own  books 
correct  it  without  delay."  But  no  one  cares 
much  about  my  mistake  in  making  Emerson  say, 
"If  the  red  slayer  thinks  he  slays,"  when  the 
great  New  England  transcendentalist  said  "  think 

283 


The  Dioersions  of  a  Book-locer 

he  slays."  I  believe  that  the  world  will  continue 
to  revolve  even  if  I  did  attempt  to  improve 
upon  Emerson. 

Almost  as  unimportant  are  some  of  the  trifling 
errors  which  we  find  in  the  pages  of  some  of  our 
favorite  historians.  In  the  first  edition  of  Vol- 
ume I.  of  John  Bach  McMaster's  entertaining 
History  of  the  People  of  the  United  States  he  gives 
a  graphic  account  of  the  troubles  of  the  settlers 
in  the  Wyoming  Valley,  and,  referring  to  John 
Armstrong,  commander  of  the  militia  in  the  strife 
and  turmoil  which  beset  those  settlers,  he  says : 
"  He  had  served  with  distinction  in  the  war,  had 
risen  to  be  a  major  in  the  Continental  Army,  and 
is  still  remembered  as  the  author  of  the  famous 
Newburg  Addresses."  ^  This  John  Armstrong 
was,  in  fact,  a  brigadier  -  general  in  the  army 
of  the  Revolution,  and  the  John  Armstrong  who 
"  rose  to  be  a  major,"  who  was  Secretary  of  War 
under  Madison,  and  an  inefficient  one,  and  who 
was  the  person  responsible  for  the  Newburg  Ad- 
dresses, was  the  youngest  son  of  the  man  Mc- 
Master  meant  to  talk  about.  A  good  deal  of  this 
trouble  is  due  to  the  folly  of  naming  a  man  of 
distinction  after  his  father ;  parents  should  know 
better. 

Woodrow  Wilson,  the  skilful  master  of  style, 
made  a  similar  error  in  his  History  of  the  Ameri- 

*  McMaster,  vol.  i.,  214. 
284 


I 


The   Dioersions  of  a  Book-looer 

can  People,  an  error  amusing  by  reason  of  its  in- 
significance, and  yet  noteworthy  as  an  instance 
of  the  fallibility  of  the  best  historians.  In  men- 
tioning General  William  Henry  Harrison,  that 
colorless  and  unimportant  American  President  of 
one  month's  service,  he  said:  "  General  Harrison 
was  the  hero  of  a  well  remembered  battle  in 
which  the  redoubtable  Tippecanoe,  the  *  Prophet ' 
of  the  Indians  who  hung  upon  the  northwestern 
frontiers,  had  been  routed,  in  i8i  i,  and  the  west- 
em  country  quieted  and  made  safe."  Of  course, 
Dr.  Wilson  knew  that  the  prophet's  name  was 
EUskwatawa,  and  that  Tippecanoe  was  the  river 
or  creek  on  whose  banks  was  fought  the  little 
battle  which  thirty  years  later  was  no  mean 
factor  in  a  great  political  campaign,  and  did 
much  to  bring  the  victorious  general  into  the 
Chief  Magistracy.  The  blunder  which  Wilson 
made  in  the  heat  and  hurry  of  composition  is 
of  no  consequence,  but  we  are  all  of  us  secretly 
pleased  to  detect  a  university  president  in  a  tri- 
fling mistake.     "  That's  all." 

McMaster  might  have  said,  as  a  Princeton 
professor,  seventy-odd  years  ago,  foreign  in  birth 
and  education,  said  when  he  called  a  lady,  at  an 
evening  party,  by  the  name  which  did  not  be- 
long to  her:  "Ah,  I  see  I  have  ze  wrong  sow  by 
ze  ear!"  He  had  imprudently  trusted  to  an  un- 
dergraduate for  instruction  in   English  idiom. 

285 


The   Dioersions   of   a  Book-looer 

It  was  of  the  same  "  Benedictus  Jaeger,  A.M., 
Ger.  et  Ital.  Ling,  et  ab  1836  Ling.  Recen.  Prof." 
—  I  quote  from  an  old  Triennial  Catalogue  — 
it  is  told  that,  tutored  by  his  mischievous  men- 
tor, he  began  his  first  lecture  in  these  words: 
"It  is  damn  pleasant  to  go  out  in  the  morning 
and  hear  the  cussed  little  birds  sing."  In  these 
days  our  enHghtened  collegians  would  say  that 
Professor  Jaeger  was  an  easy  mark. 

The  reference  to  William  Henry  Harrison  nat- 
urally leads  us  to  think  of  his  grandson  Benja- 
min, a  soimd  and  successful  lawyer,  with  a  power 
of  speech  and  a  strength  of  mind  rare  in  his  gen- 
eration. He  was  never  a  popular  man,  and  his 
limitations  as  a  politician  and  as  a  statesman 
were  manifest.  He  won  his  fame  by  his  mental 
vigor,  and  as  an  advocate  before  the  courts  he 
had  few  equals,  uniting  a  comprehensive  knowl- 
edge of  the  law  with  the  ability  to  express  his 
views  in  clear,  forcible,  and  eloquent  English. 
But  he  was  personally  somewhat  repellent,  and 
he  did  not  disclose  to  men  those  generous  im- 
pulses which  made  Clay,  Douglas,  and  Blaine 
the  idols  of  their  supporters — men  who  failed  to 
reach  the  goal  of  American  poHtical  ambition. 

It  is  an  obvious  reflection  that  most  men,  if 
allowed  their  choice,  would  prefer  the  places  of 
Clay  and  Douglas  in  history  to  those  of  Polk  and 
Buchanan. 

286 


The   Dioersions   of  a   Book-looer 

The  younger  Harrison  furnished  a  friend  of 
mine  with  an  example  of  the  danger  which  besets 
the  experimental  genealogist  and  of  the  perils 
which  attend  too  confident  a  reliance  on  the 
assertions  of  the  encyclopaedias.  Biographical 
dictionaries  informed  a  certain  man  that  Benja- 
min Harrison  was  the  son  of  John  Scott  Harri- 
son, who  was  the  son  of  William  Henry  and  of 
Anna,  the  daughter  of  John  Cleves  Symmes. 
Symmes  was  a  New  Jersey  judge,  and  his  son  of 
the  same  name  was  the  author  of  what  was 
known  as  "Symmes's  Hole,"  based  upon  his 
theory  that  the  earth  is  a  hollow  sphere,  open 
at  the  poles  for  the  admission  of  light,  and  con- 
taining within  it  six  or  seven  concentric  hollow 
spheres,  also  open  at  the  poles.  The  Cyclopcedia 
of  American  Biography  (vol.  vi.,  i6)  told  him 
concerning  the  elder  Symmes:  "His  wife  was  a 
daughter  of  Governor  William  Livingston,  and 
his  daughter  Anna  became  the  wife  of  William 
H.  Harrison."  The  amateur  fell  into  the  trap. 
As  one  of  his  ancestors  was  a  sister  of  Governor 
Livingston,  he  wrote  to  General  Benjamin  Harri- 
son, with  whom  he  was  associated  in  some  legal 
business,  referring  to  their  remote  relationship, 
and  received  this  courteous  reply: 

"  I  wish  I  could  confirm  your  genealogical  record,  for, 
I  assure  you,  it  would  be  pleasant  to  know  that  we  were 
of  kin.     The  fact  is,  however,  that  my  grandmother, 

287 


The  Dioersions  of  a  Book-loDcr 

Mrs.  William  Henry  Harrison,  was  the  daughter  of  the 
first  wife  of  Judge  John  Cleves  Symmes,  a  Miss  Tuthill, 
of  Long  Island.  Judge  Symmes,  I  think,  was  married 
three  times — first  to  Miss  Tuthill,  then  to  Miss  Living- 
ston, and  then  to  Miss  Halsey,  of  New  Jersey,  though 
I  am  not  sure  as  to  the  order  of  the  last  two  events." 


A  Triennial  Catalogue,  particularly  if  it  is  in 
pseudo- Latin,  as  Princeton's  used  to  be,  is  not  a 
very  delightful  literary  companion.  It  is  very 
like  an  index,  but  even  such  prosy,  wearisome, 
and  necessary  things  as  indexes  —  or  indices,  if 
you  must  be  prim  and  precise — may  sometimes 
be  amusing ;  witness  the  ancient  tale  of  the  entry, 
"  Best,  Mr.  Justice :  his  great  mind."  Everybody 
knows  the  humor  of  the  index  of  the  Autocrat, 
and,  indeed,  of  the  indexes  of  all  the  immortal 
Breakfast-Table  Series.  Some  years  ago  an  ob- 
serving student  called  attention  to  a  pamphlet 
in  the  Boston  Athenceum  Library  called  The 
Beauties  of  Fox,  North,  and  Burke,  compiled  by 
George  Chalmers,  and  published  in  1784,  whose 
ten-page  index  contains  such  gems  as  these: 

*' Accursed  obstinacy,  Lord  North  charged  with  it. 

"Impudently,  Lord  North  accused  of  it. 

"North,  Lord,  has  been  suckled  with  the  milk  of  the 
Treasury. 

"Puppet,  Lord  North  called  one. 

"Threshold,  Mr.  Fox  cannot  have  the  idea  of  ap- 
proaching Lord  North's.'- 


The   Dioersions   of  a  Book-Iooer 

An  index  of  this  kind  has  charms  which  surpass 
those  of  the  book  itself. 

The  late  Doctor  Franklin  Benjamin  Hough, 
Ph.D.,  M.D.,  an  industrious  compiler,  who  be- 
came involved  in  an  unpleasant  dispute  with 
the  Rivington  Club,  one  of  the  numerous  book- 
clubs of  the  sixties,  was  dubbed  "  Index  Hough" 
because  of  his  proclivities  for  indexes,  the  books 
which  he  edited  having  more  pages  of  index  than 
they  contained  of  text.^  I  am  not  inclined  to 
censure  him. 

"...  Index  learning  turns  no  student  pale, 
Yet  holds  the  eel  of  science  by  the  tail." 

It  is  true  that  Glanvill,  in  his  Vanity  of  Dog- 
matizing, said:  "  Methinks  'tis  a  pitiful  piece  of 
knowledge  that  can  be  learnt  from  an  index,  and 
a  poor  ambition  to  be  rich  in  the  inventory  of 
another's  treasures";  but  I  cannot  agree  alto- 
gether with  Glanvill,  even  if  he  did  have  some 
premonition  of  the  telegraph  when  he  wrote,  as 
early  as  1661,  "To  confer  at  the  distance  of  the 
Indies  by  sympathetick  contrivances  may  be  as 
natural  to  future  times  as  to  us  is  a  litterary  cor- 
respondence." I  love  a  good  index,  for  in  these 
days  of  stress  and  hurry  it  is  an  excellent  aid  to 
those  who  love  books  for  what  is  in  them  rather 
than  for  their  rarity  or  their  antiquity. 

*  Growoll's  American  Book  Clubs,  198. 
19  289 


XVI 

Of  changes  in  fashion;  privately  printed  books;  Dib- 
din;  the  honor  of  books. 

IT  is  not  a  profoundly  original  reflection,  but 
it  is  nevertheless  true,  that  changes  in 
literary  fashions  are  as  frequent  as  changes  in 
the  fashions  of  dress.  One  seldom  finds  any 
originality  in  discourses  about  books,  old  books 
at  least,  and  most  of  the  sage  outgivings  of 
modem  commentators  are  merely  old  things 
clothed  in  a  new  garment.  The  man  who 
demolished  Southey's  Thalaba  in  the  Edin- 
burgh Review  of  October,  1802,  justly  pro- 
claimed, in  the  awful  and  overpowering  style 
which  reviewers  then  were  wont  to  adopt,  that 
"originality,  we  are  persuaded,  is  rarer  than 
mere  alteration."  I  have  long  since  given 
up  the  idea  that  anybody  can  possibly  say 
anything  absolutely  new  about  any  book  more 
than  a  month  old,  unless  it  be  something  false 
and  absurd;  wherefore  I  shall  not  make  any 
fruitless  attempts.  Huxley  had  a  friend  who, 
he  said,  was  one  of  the  most  original  thinkers 

290 


The   Dioersions  of  a  Book-looer 

in  the  world ;  but  he  never  emitted  an  original 
thought,  as,  never  having  read  anything,  he  was 
unaware  that  others  had  come  to  identical  con- 
clusions.* 

Revolutions  in  literary  taste  are  as  common 
as  revolutions  used  to  be  in  South  American  re- 
publics. It  is  not  unprofitable  to  call  to  mind 
some  of  the  books  which  were  once  thought  to 
be  destined  for  immortality,  but  which  in  the 
course  of  time  were  cast  away  among  the  flotsam 
and  jetsam  of  literature.  Our  messages  to  the 
world  are  often  lost  in  the  transmission.  Porson 
wrote  to  Archdeacon  Travis:  "Mr.  Travis  and  I 
may  address  our  letters  to  posterity,  but  they 
will  never  be  delivered  according  to  the  direc- 
tion," Dr.  Johnson,  in  his  Lives  of  the  Poets, 
gives  the  biographies  of  such  men  as  Walsh, 
Sprat,  Fenton,  Hammond,  Broome,  and  Pomfret. 
"Why  is  Pomfret  the  most  popular  of  English 
poets?"  asked  Southey.  "  The  fact  is  certain  and 
the  solution  would  be  useful."  ^  "  It  might  have 
been  demanded  with  equal  propriety  why  Lon- 
don Bridge  is  built  of  Parian  marble,"  sneered 
Campbell,'  Johnson  says:  "  Pomfret' s  Choice 
exhibits  a  system  of  life  adapted  to  common 
notions,   and   equal   to  common    expectations; 

*Bodley's  France,  112. 

^  Southey's  Specimens,  vol.  i.,  91. 

'Campbell's  Specimens,  314. 

291 


The   Dioersions  of  a  Book-loDer 

such  a  state  as  affords  plenty  and  tranquillity, 
without  exclusion  of  intellectual  pleasures.  Per- 
haps no  composition  in  our  language  has  been 
oftener  perused  than  Pomfret's  Choice y  How 
soon  his  fame  departed!  There  is  quaint  vigor 
in  the  lines  from  his  poem  on  "Reason": 

How  do  we  know  that  what  we  know  is  true? 

How  shall  we  falsehood  fly,  and  truth  pursue? 

Let  none  then  here  his  certain  knowledge  boast; 

'Tis  all  but  probability  at  most; 

This  is  the  easy  purchase  of  the  mind, 

The  vulgar's  treasure,  which  we  soon  may  find! 

But  truth  lies  hid,  and  ere  we  can  explore 

The  glittering  gem,  our  fleeting  life  is  o'er. 

But  Bartletfs  Familiar  Quotations  has  only 
two  extracts  from  Pomfret,  neither  of  them  fa- 
miliar, and  neither  of  them  taken  from  his  most 
conspicuous  work.  Pomfret's  name  is  not  to  be 
found  in  Johnson's  New  Universal  CyclopcEdia — 
one  of  the  most  useful  works  of  its  kind — and 
he  has  but  seven  brief  lines  devoted  to  him  in 
the  dear,  shabby  old  Encydopcedia  Americana, 
edited  by  that  grave  and  omniscient  scholar, 
Francis  Lieber.  Let  no  one  infer  that  these 
are  my  only  encyclopaedias ;  I  cite  them  because, 
if  Pomfret  deserved  remembrance  by  readers 
of  to-day,  he  would  surely  have  been  mentioned 
with  praise  in  those  compendiums. 

Abraham  Cowley,  said  by  Milton  to  have  been 
292 


The  Dioersions   of  a  Book-looer 

third  in  the  list  of  England's  greatest  poets — 
Spenser  and  Shakespeare  his  leaders — was  once 
more  popular  than  Milton  himself,  but  only 
about  eighty  years  after  Cowley's  death  Pope 
asked,  "  Who  now  reads  Cowley?"  Who,  indeed, 
but  the  few — the  men  whom  at  the  club  and  at 
the  dinner-table  we  speak  of  as  scholarly,  with 
a  slight  accent  of  condescension — read  Cowley, 
or  Waller,  or  John  Donne?  "It  may  be  safely 
affirmed,"  said  Campbell  of  Cowley,  "that  of 
fourteen  hundred  pages  of  verse  which  he  has 
left,  not  a  hundred  are  worth  reading."  Donne 
was  the  "best  good-natured  man  with  the 
worst-natured  Muse." 

A  very  kindly  critic  who  lives  in  a  prosperous 
New  England  city  questioned  an  assertion  of 
mine  to  the  effect  that  Cowper  is  practically  un- 
read, and  says,  with  quiet  and  pitying  smile — 
I  can  see  the  smile — "there  are  many  persons 
who  still  read  and  enjoy  his  poetry."  He  won- 
ders how  I  can  say  "calmly  and  condescending- 
ly that  *  John  Giljjin  '  may  possibly  boast  some 
readers  even  at  this  day."  I  did  not  mean  to 
say  it  condescendingly,  but  I  did  say  it  calmly, 
and  after  mature  reflection,  some  inquiry  among 
men  of  cultivation,  and  an  observation  of  a 
good  many  years.  With  all  respect  to  my 
amiable  lover  of  Cowper,  and  I  do  not  yield  to 
him  in  my  admiration  of  the  poet's  simplicity 

293 


The  DiDersions  of  a  Book-louer 

and  strength,  I  say  it  again  because  it  is  true. 
I  say  further  that  of  the  millions  who  now  peruse 
the  printed  pages  of  popular  volumes,  only  the 
select,  the  chosen  ones,  read  the  Task.  I  am  not 
talking  of  scholars  and  students  in  New  England, 
but  of  the  people  of  the  time,  the  people  who 
purchase  and  devour  the  multitudinous  story- 
books which  pour  from  the  presses  and  make 
fortunes  for  authors  and  publishers.  They  cer- 
tainly do  not  read  eighteenth-century  poetry,  or, 
for  the  matter  of  that,  twentieth  century  poetry, 
if  there  is  any.  It  is  an  age  of  prose  fiction, 
because  it  is  an  age  of  vast  material  prosperity 
and  of  widely  diffused  intellectual  mediocrity. 
Consider  our  greatly  advertised  possessors  of 
wealth,  in  their  palatial  cottages  and  in  their 
stately  mansions;  reflect  on  their  occupations 
and  their  interests.  What  do  they  think  about? 
Upon  what  do  they  lavish  their  brains?  On 
Cowper?  I  think  not.  And  upon  what  do  our 
mddle  classes  feed?  On  Cowper?  I  am  sure 
they  do  not.  If  we  eliminate  the  millionnaires 
and  the  middle  classes  there  is  not  much  left 
for  purposes  of  poetry-consumption.  Moreover, 
poetry  has  ceased  to  have  attractions  for  the 
average  man,  and  poets  of  distinction  are  not 
appearing  in  the  world.  Swinburne  is  silent, 
and  Watson,  Lewis  Morris,  and  Stephen  Phillips 
rank  with  the  men  who  in  the  closing  years  of  the 

294 


The  Dioersions  of  a  Book-locer 

eighteenth  century  immediately  preceded  the 
giants  of  the  early  nineteenth.  When  the  King 
distributes  coronation  honors  we  find  no  poets 
receiving  titles  or  decorations.  A  critic,  a 
humorist,  and  two  novelists  seem  to  represent 
the  realm  of  literature.  I  am  not  finding  fault 
with  the  situation;  it  is  due  to  the  change  in 
fashion.  Nobody  now  writes  plays  like  the 
"School  for  Scandal"  or  "She  Stoops  to  Con- 
quer." Nobody  writes  poems  like  "  Endy- 
mion,"  or  "The  Excursion,"  or  "In  Memo- 
nam." 

Not  long  ago  a  philosophical  Englishman,  in 
an  admirable  book  on  modern  France,  referred 
to  Switzerland  as  an  example  of  "the  inglorious 
prosperity"  of  federations,  and  prophesied  that 
there  are  "worse  fates  awaiting  democracies. 
"The  United  States"  he  tells  us,  "are  as  pros- 
perous as  Switzerland,  and  have  with  affluence 
become  almost  as  barren  in  art  and  in  letters, 
after  an  early  season  of  wondrous  literary 
promise."  We  may  be  excused,  I  think,  for 
believing  that  our  form  of  government  has  not 
much  to  do  with  the  decline  of  excellence  in 
literature  or  in  art.  Is  it  not  due  to  the  pros- 
perity of  which  he  speaks?  England  too  is 
prosperous,  and  I  doubt  if  a  comparison  between 
her  art  and  literature  of  to-day  with  that  of  a 
time   not   very   long  distant   should   make   us 

295 


The  Dioersions   of  a   Book-looer 

ashamed  of  our  own  descent  from  greatness  to 
mediocrity. 

We  were  just  now  speaking  of  the  eighteenth 
century.  The  conditions  of  the  years  preced- 
ing the  coming  of  Wordsworth  were  almost  the 
same  as  those  which  now  prevail.  After  Pope 
came  such  weaklings  as  Hay  ley  and  Mason,  Mic- 
kle  and  Hoole,  and  —  may  we  add?  —  Darwin, 
with  his  "  Loves  of  the  Plants."  The  world 
was  busy  then  with  politics,  with  the  stage,  with 
the  novels,  the  Pamelas,  the  Evelinas,  and  with 
the  romances  The  Castle  of  Otranto  and  The 
Mysteries  of  Udolpho.  "Tis  an  age  most  un- 
poetical,"  wrote  Horace  Walpole  to  his  friend 
Sir  Horace  Mann.  We  may  echo  his  words. 
The  world  is  not  concerning  itself  now  so  much 
about  politics  or  the  drama,  but  the  news- 
papers and  the  craze  for  sports  have  more  than 
taken  their  place  as  discouragers  of  poetic 
creation.  It  is  not  poetry  alone  which  has 
gone  down  before  the  spear  of  the  victorious 
teller  of  tales.  The  day  of  the  essay,  of  the 
short  and  discursive  "paper,"  has  also  passed 
away.  They  find,  perhaps,  now  and  then  a 
precarious  and  transitory  lodging  in  the  news- 
paper or  in  the  magazine,  but  they  are  seldom 
deemed  worthy  of  preservation  in  book  form. 
The  essays  of  Macaulay,  of  Carlyle,  of  Brougham, 
of  Emerson,  and  of  Lowell,  as  well  as  the  grace- 

296 


The  Dioersions  of  a  Book-looer 

ful  sketches  of  Irving  and  of  Paulding,  of  N.  P. 
Willis  and  of  Donald  G.  Mitchell,  have  become 
obsolete  and  old-fashioned/  If  any  imitative 
successors  should  arise,  they  might  please  a 
small  company  of  veterans  who  were  readers 
in  the  distant  fifties,  but  not  the  young  and 
impatient  readers  of  nineteen  hundred  and 
three.  When  the  busy  man  can  spare  the 
time  from  the  office,  the  golf-links,  or  the  tennis 
court  to  pick  up  a  volume  for  casual  perusal, 
he  wishes  to  get  either  amusement  or  instruc- 
tion— usually  amusement.  He  finds  one  in  the 
novel  and  the  other  in  science,  biography,  or 
lighter  history.  Books  are  made  to  sell,  and 
the  collection  of  essays  sells  but  indifferently 
in  comparison  with  what  are  called  successful 
books;  wherefore  there  is  little  inducement  for 
anybody  to  print  it.  If  it  gets  into  the  market, 
it  is  by  reason  of  some  considerations  of  past 
usefulness  of  the  author  or  of  personal  friend- 
ship between  him  and  the  head  of  the  publishing 
house. 

It  is  not  at  all  strange  that  it  should  be  so. 
The  man  who  toils  in  the  counting-house  or  in 
the  shop  has  but  little  to  stimulate  his  imagina- 
tion ;  he  dwells  in  a  land  of  commonplace.     The 

1  Perhaps  we  may  as  well  forget  Willis ;  yet  he  had  a  cer- 
tain interest,  and  was  an  attractive  person,  despite  his  dan- 
dyism and  some  harmless  affectations. 

297 


The  Diuersions  of  a  Book-looer 

novelist  supplies  his  romance  for  him  and  cre- 
ates for  him  a  picturesque  environment.  For  the 
moment  he  lives  in  fairyland  and  is  transported 
from  sordid  trade  to  ethereal  regions  where  the 
ordinary  cares  of  life  are  unknown.  It  is  a 
good  thing  to  take  him  away  from  money- 
gathering  and  labor;  it  helps  him  and  relieves 
the  strain  of  daily  drudgery.  He  could  not 
gain  half  as  much  of  pleasure  from  anything 
aside  from  the  fictitious  world  where  the  in- 
vented characters  disport  themselves  in  an  at- 
mosphere of  seductive  unreaHty.  He  is  bored 
by  essays  and  reviews,  wearied  by  poetry,  and 
discouraged  by  ponderous  studies  in  history. 

Some  one  will  say,  perhaps,  that  this  does 
not  account  for  women  novel-readers,  and  that 
if  a  modem  Macaulay  should  appear  his  essays 
would  not  be  neglected.  I  am  not  to  be  drawn 
into  discussion;  this  is  a  monologue,  not  a  de- 
bate. 

The  impatience  of  the  day  with  anything  in 
the  nature  of  a  gossiping  series  of  sketches  is  il- 
lustrated by  a  profound  newspaper  notice  which 
I  found  recently  in  a  New  York  journal.  A 
certain  American  writer  was  delivering  judg- 
ment upon  what  had  seemed  to  me  to  be  an 
am-using  collection  of  observations,  anecdotes, 
and  reminiscences,  well  worthy  of  the  approval 
of  an  intelligent  person  possessing  a  mind  ca- 

298 


The  Dioersions  of  a  Boob-looer 

pable  of  appreciating  something  better  than 
swashbuckling  stories  and  pot-boiling  critiques. 
He  complained  of  the  book  in  manner  follow- 
ing, the  style  sufficiently  disclosing  the  writer's 
mental  condition:  "It  isn't  a  book  at  all,  just 
a  collection  of  more  or  less  scrappy  papers. 
It  brings  to  my  mind  something  that  Lowell 
said  about  the  book  of  a  really  great  essayist, 
than  whom  there  have  been  few  better.  I 
refer  to  Emerson.*  In  his  'Fable  for  Critics,' 
the  poet  thus  speaks — I  quote  from  memory, 
in  the  absence  of  my  library — 

'"Roots,  leaves,  and  branches,  singly,  perfect  maybe, 
But  clapped  hodge-podge  together,  they  don't  make 
a  tree.' "  ^ 

According  to  this  commentator,  a  collection 
of  chapters  on  divers  subjects,  however  pleasant 
and  useful,  is  not  a  book.  He  sweeps  out  of 
the  category  of  literature  Macaulay's  Essays, 
Montaigne,  The  Atitocrat,  Nodes  Ambrosianae, 
The  Doctor,  the  Roundabout  Papers,  and  even 
Elia,  with  the  cruel  hand  of  authority,  relying 
upon  a  playful  figure  used  by  a  great  man  who 

*  Cf.  "I  allude,  Sir,  to  the  British  Lion."  Cyrus  Choke, 
General,  U.  S.  M.,  reported  in  I.  Martin  Chuzzlewit,  546, 
Macmillan  edition. 

^  He  misquotes  the  lines — "Roots,  wood,  bark,  and 
leaves,"  etc.  Moreover,  Lowell  was  speaking  of  Emer- 
son's poems,  and  not  of  his  essays. 

299 


The  Dicersions   of  a  Book-locer 

gave  to  the  world  many  such  collections  of  his 
own.  He  forgets  that  a  nosegay  has  its  value 
as  distinctive  as  that  of  a  tree.  One  who  wishes 
to  have  a  basketful  of  lovely  flowers  will  not  be 
satisfied  with  any  tree,  however  perfect.  The 
spectacle  of  a  romancing  writer  proclaiming 
loudly  that  he  will  not  have  flowers  and  that 
no  one  shall  have  flowers,  but  that  he  must 
have  a  tree,  and  ever}'"  one  else  must  and  shall 
have  trees,  willy-nilly,  is  amusing  if  not  profit- 
able or  instructive. 

It  is  always  a  melancholy  thing  to  discover 
that  one  is  no  longer  young,  but  it  is  a  discovery 
we  all  make,  and  it  astonishes  us  as  much  as 
if  no  one  else  had  ever  made  it.  Forty  years 
hence  some  enthusiast  who  now  revels  in  Kip- 
ling and  Sir  Gilbert  Parker,  in  the  historical 
romance  of  the  prevailing  fashion,  or  in  the 
bizarre  creations  of  Ibsen,  Maeterlinck,  and 
D'Annunzio  (forgive  the  collocation),  will  find 
himself  among  the  back  numbers  of  life,  as  I 
have  foimd  myself  with  my  antiquated  affec- 
tion for  the  bygone  in  literature.  The  sudden 
revelation  was  a  shock  to  my  sensibilities.  I 
felt  much  as  did  the  person  who  was  discovered , 
by  a  sympathetic  acquaintance,  almost  in  tears 
over  his  limcheon  at  the  club,  and  who  con- 
fessed  that  his   depression   was   the  result   of 

300 


The   Diuersions   of   a   Book-looer 

the  remark  of  one  of  a  number  of  loud-howling, 
mightily  contending  cabmen  at  the  railway 
station:  "Oh,  let  the  old  man  alone!"  Still, 
after  one  has  made  up  his  mind  to  be  really 
venerable  and  to  talk  about  "my  time  of  life," 
it  is  not  so  bad ;  it  gives  one  considerable  latitude 
in  the  w^ay  of  fault-finding  and  general  dis- 
paragement of  existing  things;  one  has  seats 
offered  to  him  in  the  cars;  one  is  permitted  to 
occupy  the  good  places  in  the  commencement 
halls,  and  in  due  course  one  becomes  a  sage  and 
writes  about  "the  pleasures  of  old  age." 

It  may  be  that,  after  a  prolonged  struggle 
with  the  vigorous  literature  of  the  day,  some 
may  be  disposed  to  let  their  oars  rest,  as  they 
loiter  in  a  quiet  bay  and  amuse  themselves  with 
the  imconnected  and  the  discursive;  rambling 
from  subject  to  subject  and  dwelling  briefly 
on  any  one  topic  for  fear  of  boredom.  More 
than  a  generation  ago  that  delightful  old  gen- 
tleman Stephen  Alexander,  whose  attenuated 
form  was  customarily  arrayed  in  a  threadbare 
swallow-tailed  coat  of  a  remote  vintage,  used 
to  instruct  us  in  "natural  philosophy  and  as- 
tronomy," and  I  recall  with  pleasure  how,  after 
dwelling  lovingly  awhile  on  the  beauties  of  the 
rope  machine  and  the  entrancing  principle  of 
virtual  velocity,  he  would  suddenly  switch  off 
of  the  main  track,  and  exclaim  in  his  quaint, 

.^oi 


The  Dioersions  of  a  Book-louer 

inimitable  way,  "  Now  let  us  talk  a  little  about 
the  moon."  We  shall  not  forget  that  he  began 
our  course  of  lectures  with  the  startling  an- 
nouncement, "There  is  a  region  of  the  know- 
able."  My  classmate  "  Dickey,"  who  had  equip- 
ped himself  with  a  ponderous  note -book  and 
had  resolved  to  turn  over  a  new  leaf  and  be 
good,  gravely  wrote  down,  "There  is  a  region 
of  the  noble,"  and  thereafter,  through  junior 
and  senior  years,  never  wrote  more.  I  think 
that  it  is  good  sometimes  to  stray  from  the 
paths  of  philosophy,  natural  or  imnatural,  and 
to  talk  a  little  about  the  moon. 

If  the  writer  of  essays  is  really  ambitious  to 
have  his  productions  valued  highly  in  the  book 
market  and  eagerly  sought  for  by  collectors,  let 
him  give  up  the  hope  of  a  widespread  popularity, 
and  write  about  books,  engravings,  first  editions, 
broadsides,  or  book-plates,  and  have  the  result 
privately  printed  by  some  eminent  master  of 
typography.  The  "privately  printed  book" 
seems  to  have  reached  the  pinnacle  of  its  glory. 
When  we  are  turning  the  leaves  of  the  catalogue 
of  our  favorite  bookseller  and  learn  that  Mr. 
Andrews's  entertaining  Gossip  About  Book-Col- 
lecting, of  whose  two  octavo,  vellum  -  wrapped 
volumes  only  two  hundred  and  fifty-seven  sets 
were  printed,  is  not  to  be  had  for  less  than 
$90,   and  his  later  Paul  Revere  and  His  En- 

302 


The   Dioersions  of  a  Book-looer 

gravings  (one  hundred  and  seventy  copies, 
boards,  vellum  back)  for  less  than  $60,  we  may 
understand  why  the  accomplished  author  of 
these  pretty  rarities  sometimes  modestly  pro- 
tests against  the  inflated  prices  and  says  "They 
are  not  worth  it."  But  if  men  are  willing  to 
pay  such  prices,  it  must  be  because  the  books 
are  deserving  and  valuable.  Of  course,  they  are 
not,  in  the  strict  sense,  privately  printed,  but 
they  go  only  to  chosen  subscribers. 

The  mania  has  extended  to  books  produced 
from  quasi-private  presses.  The  sums  paid  for 
these  volumes  seem  to  the  ordinary  observer 
foolishly  extravagant.  No  doubt  the  Kelmscott 
Press,  under  William  Morris,  did  work  of  a 
high  order,  but  it  is  not  miraculously  perfect, 
and  it  is  doubtful  whether  a  complete  set  in 
the  original  bindings  is  really  worth  $4500, 
which  is  the  amount  demanded  by  a  New  York 
dealer  within  the  past  year.  Andrew  Lang 
expresses  my  own  sentiments  when  he  says, 
"As  they  are  not  very  easily  read,  one  feels  no 
ardent  desire  to  possess  them."  My  opinion  is 
that  their  vogue  will  not  be  enduring.  The 
Vale  Press  and  the  Essex  House  Press  appear 
to  have  appreciative  admirers,  although  they 
are  still  far  in  the  rear  of  the  Kelmscotts,  in 
selling  value  at  least.  Not  to  be  left  behind  in 
the  race,  we  find  America  coming  forward  with 

303 


The   Dioersions  off   a   Book-looer 

the  Elston  Press,  and  we  will  probably  observe 
its  books  soaring  to  dizzy  heights.  There  is  one 
of  the  Elstons  on  the  table,  the  Endymion.  At 
the  end  of  the  book,  in  palpable  imitation  of 
the  English  models,  the  publishers  say:  "Here 
ends  Endymion,  by  John  Keats.  The  text  is 
that  of  the  first  edition  of  1818.  One  hundred 
and  sixty- two  copies  have  been  printed,  with 
title-pages  and  initials  by  H.  M.  O'Kane.  Printed 
and  sold  by  Clarke  Conwell  at  the  Elston  Press, 
Pelham  Road,  New  Rochelle,  New  York.  Fin- 
ished this  May-day,  mdccccii."  Pelham  Road 
is  very  British  indeed,  but  the  whole  postscript 
has  a  savor  of  affectation.  As  for  the  book 
itself,  the  paper  is  moderately  good,  the  typog- 
raphy reasonably  attractive,  and  the  edges  very 
much  untrimmed;  yet  I  perceive  no  very  good 
reason  for  its  existence.  There  may  be  cause 
for  the  making  of  reprints  of  old  and  scarce 
books,  but  Endymion  does  not  belong  to  those 
orders.  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  which  is  in  the 
same  category,  was  done  by  the  Essex  House, 
and  sells  for  $45.  The  first  edition  of  the  three 
poems  Lamia,  Isabella,  and  The  Eve  of  St. 
Agnes  (1820),  the  type  whereof  is  admirable,  is 
held  at  $180.  A  first  edition  of  Endymion, 
in  the  original  boards,  edges  uncut  (18 18),  "with 
the  four  pages  of  advertisement  at  end,"  I  can 
have   if  I  am  willing  to   pay  a  London  book- 

304 


The  Dioersions  of  a  Book-looer 

seller  the  rather  generous  consideration  of  £']2> 
los.  Perhaps  he  might  be  persuaded  to  throw 
off  the  ten  shillings,  but  the  Englishman  has  a 
habit  of  clinging  to  those  extra  shillings  with 
a  determined  grip.  That  familiar  price  which 
one  meets  at  every  turn — ;^i  is — always  excites 
my  angriest  passions,  but  they  would  much 
rather  part  with  their  boasted  unwritten  con- 
stitution than  give  up  the  exasperating  twelve- 
pence  which  marks  the  difference  between  the 
real  sovereign  and  the  fictitious  guinea. 

Some  ingenuous  individuals  who  think  that 
it  denotes  superior  intelligence  to  decry  what 
they  cannot  comprehend  affect  to  wonder  why 
it  is  that  the  collector  prizes  those  "advertise- 
ments at  the  end."  They  seem  to  think  that  a 
genuine  Thackeray  or  Dickens  original  number 
or  edition,  ornamented  by  the  extra  leaves 
whereon  the  advertiser  disported  himself,  is 
like  some  copy  of  the  Century  Magazine,  or  of 
McClure's,  from  which  every  right-minded  person 
tears  away  about  half  the  bulk  in  order  to  have 
a  comfortable  pamphlet.  I  sometimes  wonder 
if  anybody  buys  any  of  the  wares  described  in 
those  advertising  pages  or  proclaimed  on  the 
hideous  bill -boards  which  disfigure  the  fields 
adjacent  to  our  popular  lines  of  railway.  There 
must  be  credulous  creatures  who  are  influenced 
by  these  things,  for  they  must  be  expensive. 


The  Dioersions  of  a  Book-looer 

The  ignorant  will  actually  engage  in  argument 
about  the  value  of  "added  ads"  appended  to  a 
book;  but  it  does  not  admit  of  argument.  All 
that  one  need  say  is  that  the  advertising  pages 
annexed  to  the  first  edition  are  "merely  cor- 
roborative detail  intended  to  give  artistic  veri- 
similitude to  a  bald  and  unconvincing  narrative," 
a  phrase  of  Gilbert's  which  has  passed  into  the 
law  reports  in  a  learned  opinion  by  Mr.  Justice 
Woodward  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  New  York. 

Dr.  Luard,  in  his  brief  but  interesting 
sketch  of  Thomas  Frognall  Dibdin,  written  for 
the  Dictionary  of  National  Biography,  gives  an 
account  of  the  forming  of  the  Roxburghe  Club 
in  1812.  John  Ker,  third  Duke  of  Roxburghe, 
who  died  in  1804,  had  a  splendid  collection  in 
his  residence  in  St.  James's  Square,  London, 
and  the  sale  of  his  books,  continuing  for  forty- 
five  days  between  May  18  and  July  8,  181 2,  is 
still  famous.  It  is  said  that  the  books  cost  him 
about  ;^5ooo,  but  they  sold  for  £23,341,  a 
result  which  makes  the  sordid  person's  mouth 
water.  According  to  Burnet,  it  was  the  high- 
est point  reached  by  the  thermometer  of  bib- 
liomania. The  Valdarfer  edition  of  Boccaccio, 
which  had  cost  the  second  Duke  of  Roxburghe 
one  hundred  guineas,  brought,  as  we  have  seen, 
the  handsome  price  of  £2260.  In  honor  of  this 
supreme  triumph  the  chief  bibliophiles  of  that 

306 


The   Diuersions   of  a  Book-looer 

time  dined  together  at  St.  Alban's  Tavern  and 
organized  the  Roxburghe  Club,  consisting  at 
first  of  twenty-four  members,  with  Lord  Spencer 
at  the  head,  and  the  pedantic  Dibdin  as  vice- 
president.  "  Each  member  was  expected  to  pro- 
duce a  reprint  of  some  rare  volume  of  English 
literature,"  and  some  of  the  earlier  publications 
were  so  worthless  that  it  was  said  of  them, 
"When  they  were  unique,  there  was  already  one 
copy  too  many  in  existence."  Still,  the  club  was 
the  ancestor  of  the  numerous  clubs  of  to-day, 
and  it  did  much  to  preserve  the  records  of 
English  history  and  antiquities.  Dibdin  him- 
self, despite  his  interest  in  the  matter,  was 
strangely  ignorant ;  but  inaccurate  as  he  was,  he 
accomplished  many  things.  Dyce  said  of  him 
that  he  was  "an  ignorant  pretender,  without 
the  learning  of  a  school-boy,  who  published  a 
quantity  of  books  swarming  with  errors  of  every 
description."  It  is  sad  to  recall  that  his  latter 
days  were  troubled  by  illness  and  poverty. 

Mr.  William  Loring  Andrews  has  with  the 
true  spirit  of  the  bookman,  and  (pardon  the 
expression)  of  the  old-fashioned  bookman,  up- 
lifted his  voice  in  defence  of  poor  Dibdin,  whom 
he  calls  "  the  Boswell  of  his  generation  of  bib- 
liophiles." Rather  severe,  I  think,  on  Boswell. 
Mr.  Andrews,  who  must  be  listened  to  for  rea- 
sons which  we  all  recognize,  insists  that  Dibdin's 

307 


The   Diuersions   of  a   Book-looer 

books  are  neglected  because  men  are  ignorant 
of  their  beauty  of  form  and  of  the  important 
niche  they  occupy  in  the  histor}^  of  Enghsh 
book-collecting.  I  doubt,  however,  whether  we 
are  to  have  a  renewal  of  their  former  popularity. 
Few  persons  can  discern  in  them  anything  but 
a  dry  and  occasionally  fanciful  accoimt  of  an- 
cient books,  not  grave  enough  to  be  convincing. 
Mr.  Growoll  has  given  us  such  a  complete 
account  of  American  book-clubs  that  we  may 
consider  the  subject  exhausted  for  the  present. 
He  traces  the  history  of  book-clubs  in  America, 
in  the  restricted  sense — that  is  to  say,  "of  one 
or  more  persons  printing,  or  causing  to  be 
printed,  manuscripts  or  books  for  distribution 
among  a  limited  circle  of  subscribers" — to  the 
time  when  Jolin  Eliot,  "teacher  of  Roxbur\'," 
issued  at  the  press  of  Marmaduke  Johnson,  in 
Cambridge,  1665,  his  Communion  of  Churches. 
Roxburghe  and  Roxbury  are  names  alike  enough 
to  arouse  curiosity.  Of  the  older  clubs  in  this 
country,  the  Bradford  Club  (1859-1867),  which 
devoted  itself  mainly  to  American  history,  ap- 
pears to  have  been  the  most  useful;  and  the 
Dimlap  Society,  with  its  two  series  of  works 
connected  with  the  stage,  is  entitled  to  ap- 
preciative remembrance.  It  may  be  questioned, 
however,  whether  the  work  of  these  associations 
is   of   much  -  enduring  value.     The  personality 

.-.08 


The   Diocrsions   of  a   Book-louer 

of  the  members  is  often  much  more  interesting 
than  the  result  of  their  labors. 

I  cannot  express  any  opinions  about  the 
books  of  the  Grolier  Club  and  of  the  Caxton 
Club,  because  there  is  a  solemn  cloak  which 
covers  the  hallowed  precincts  of  such  institu- 
tions— a  law  of  reticence  which  must  not  be 
broken.  Only  death  or  dire  poverty  is  a  suf- 
ficient excuse  for  bringing  into  the  market 
the  publications  of  these  associations  of  book- 
lovers,  and  it  must  be  acknowledged  that  many 
covet  the  Grolier  volumes  with  exceeding  strong 
desire,  for  much  money  is  expended  to  acquire 
them.  Even  the  yearly  club-books  have  their 
exalted  value  and  are  catalogued  with  the  star- 
items  of  the  collections,  although  their  contents 
must  be  dull  to  any  reader,  except,  perhaps, 
some  of  the  pleasant  addresses  of  the  presidents 
which  are  inserted  between  the  treasurers'  re- 
ports and  the  long  lists  of  resident  and  non-resi- 
dent members. 

One  gets  tired  of  talking  about  books  all 
the  time,  says  George  Brandes.  Victor  Hugo 
said  that  they  are  cold  companions ;  but  he  must 
have  been  referring  to  French  books.  One  may 
not,  however,  grow  weary  of  reading  them.  Car- 
lyle  was  talking  insincerely  when  he  said  that 
"no  man  without  Themistocles'  gift  of  forget- 

309 


The   Dioersions   of  a   Book-loDer 

ting  can  possibly  spend  his  days  in  reading."  It 
is  time  to  bring  these  destdtor}-  diversions  to  an 
end.  As  I  lay  aside  the  pen  and  go  back  to  the 
friendly  denizens  of  the  shelves,  I  find  them,  not 
cold  or  unkind,  but  "the  best  companions," 
as  John  Fletcher  called  them ;  and  I  think  of 
the  sonnet  "Concerning  the  Honor  of  Books," 
which  some  ascribe  to  John  Florio  and  some  to 
Samuel  Daniel ;  b:it  what  care  I  who  wrote  it ! 

"  Since  honor  from  the  honorer  proceeds, 

How  well  do  they  deserve  that  memorize 
And  leave  in  Books  for  all  posterities 
The  names  of  worthies  and  their  virtuous  deeds. 

"  When  all  their  glorv'-  else,  like  water- weeds 
Without  their  element,  presently  dies, 
And  all  their  greatness  quite  forgotten  lies. 
And  when  and  how  they  flourished  no  man  heeds. 

"  How  poor  remembrances  are  statues,  tombs, 
And  other  monuments  that  men  erect 
To  princes,  which  remain  in  closed  rooms 
Where  but  a  few  behold  them,  in  respect 
Of  Books,  that  to  the  universal  eye 
Show  how  they  lived;  the  other  where  they  lie." 


INDEX 


A  Modern  Instance,  224,  225. 
Abbatt,  William,   70. 
Abbott's  Forms,  80. 
Adams,  C.   F.,   145. 

Henry,  127. 

Addison,    Joseph,    20,     104, 

232. 
Akenside,  Mark,   173. 
Aldines,   2S,  68. 
Aldrich,  T.   B.,    154,   155. 
Alexander,  Mrs.,  223. 

Stephen,   120,301. 

Alison,     Sir    Archibald,    74, 

134- 

American      Commonwealth, 

The,  59. 
Lands    and    Letters, 

108, 132. 

Review,  Tlie,  132. 

Statesynen.  127. 


Analectic  Magazine,  136. 
Anderson,  John,  279. 
Andr6,  John,  69,  70. 
Andrews'  Literary  By-ways, 

215. 
Andrews,  William  Lonng,  68, 

141,    282,    283,    302,   303, 

307- 
Anne  of  Denmark.  57. 
Arbuthnot    and    Ambrister, 

.51-       .  . 
Areopagtttca,  106. 

Aristophanes,  272. 

Aristotle,  249. 

Armstrong,  John,  284. 

Arnold,  J.  H.  V.,  202,  203. 

Art  of  Bookbinding,  2>,^. 


Arthur  Mervyn,  108,  113. 
Artists  of  Spain,  41. 
.45  You  Like  It,  180. 
AthencFum,  The,  51. 
Atlantic  Monthly,  135. 
Aubrey,  John,  45. 
Aungerville.   R.,   27. 
Authors  at  Home,  202. 
Autocrat    of    the    Breakfast- 
Table,  31,  288,  299. 

Bach,    182. 

Bacon,  Sir  Francis,  144,  180, 

242,   271. 
Bacon's  Organon,  46. 
Bagehot,    Walter,    43,     121, 

185,  186. 
Bailev.   P.  J..    19. 
Baker,   Rev.  Thomas,  88. 
Balfour,  A.  J.,  91. 
^aXioxxx's  Stevenson,  123. 
Balzac,  H.  de,   121. 
Bancroft,     George,     56,     93, 

187. 
Bangs  &  Co.,  197,  279. 
T.  K.,  162. 


Barbaul'd.   Mrs.,   11. 
Barnaby  Rudge,  loi. 
Barrett,   La-RTcnce,   274. 
Barrie.  J.  M.,   113.   143. 
Barrister,   The,   16. 
Bartlett's     Familiar    Quota- 
tions.  13,   292. 
Bartlett  &  Welford.  77. 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  64. 
Beauties  of  Fox,  etc.,  288. 
Beckford,  WilUam,  ^s- 


311 


Index 


Bedford,  F.,  43. 

Beethoven,   182,   226. 

Behn,  Aphra,  265,  266. 

Behn's  Plays,  265,  266. 

Bell's  Collection,   262. 

"  Ben  Bolt,"  19. 

Benton,  N.  S.,   249. 

Benton's  Herkimer  County, 
249. 

Bemadotte,    147. 

Best.  Mr.  Justice,   288. 

Best's  Memorials,   179. 

Bible,   Gutenberg,   43. 

John  Eliot,  84. 

Mazarine,  28. 

Bibliographer' s  JSIanual,  38. 

Bibliographical  Account  of 
English  Theatrical  Litera- 
ture, 38,  271. 

Bibliography  of  Freneau,  76. 

Biddle,  Nicholas,  173. 

Bierstadt,   E.   H.,   70. 

Bi glow  Papers,  146,  153. 

Billings,  Josh,  149,  153,  212. 

Biographical  History  of  Eng- 
land,   195,    198. 

"  Black  Crook,  The,"  273. 

Blackmore,   E.,  224. 

Blackwell,   74. 

Blackvi'ood,   258. 

Blackwood' s  Magazine,  30, 
129. 

Blades,  W.,   25,  46. 

Blaine,  James  G.,  286. 

Blandford,  Marquis  of,  29. 

Boccaccio,   29,  94,  307. 

Bodley,  J.  E.  C,  177,  291. 

Bohn,  Henry  G.,  13.  14,  37, 
38. 

Bohn's  Dictionary,  14,  37. 

Bolingbroke,  Lord,   177. 

Boston's  Westchester  County, 
249. 

Book-Hunter,  28,  69. 

Book-Lover,  192. 

Book  -  Lover's  Enchiridion, 
244. 

Book  Prices  Current,  81. 


Booth,  B.,  274. 

Edwin,  170,  274. 


Booties' s  Baby,  228. 
Boswell,  James,  172,  173,307 
Boswell's  Corsica,  172,  173. 

Johnson,i']2. 


Bowdler,  Thomas,   179,  180. 
Bradburn,  John,   282. 
Bradford  Club,   308. 
Bradstreet,  45,  66,  274. 
Brady,  John   R.,  85. 
Brainard,  J.  G.  C,  133,  134. 
Brainard's       Literary       Re- 

inains,    134. 
Brandes,  George,  309. 
Brantome,   252. 
Braybrooke,   Lord,   247. 
Bronte,  Charlotte,   229. 
Broome,  W.,   291. 
Brotherhood  of  Letters,  217. 
Brougham.  Lord,  296. 
Brown,     Charles     Brockden, 

107-110,   113. 
C.  B.,  Memoirs,  108, 


109. 
Browne,  C.  F.,   115. 

Irving,  III,  200,  201. 

Sir  Thomas,  240. 


Browning,  Robert,  217,  218. 
Bryant,    W.    C,    65-67,    85, 

133.   154,   155- 
Bryce,  James,  59,  60. 
Buchanan,  James,   114,  286. 
Buckle,  Henry  T.,  140,  141. 
Buckle's  History,  141. 
Buff  on,   230. 
Bukowski,   279. 
Burke,  Edmund,  20,  95,  288. 
Bumand,  Sir  F.  C,  158,  159. 
Burnet,  306. 
Bumey,  Charles,  ^^,  97. 
Miss,  96. 


Bums,  Robert,   100,   144. 
Burr,  Aaron,   19. 
Burroughs,  John,   102. 
Burton,   John    Hill,    28,    67, 

260. 
R.,  98. 


312 


Index 


Butler,  B.  F.,   i8. 

Willam  Allen,  15-19, 

116,   162. 
Bussy  Rabutin,  248. 
Byron,  Lord,   104,   184. 

Caine,  Hall,  94,   113,   228. 
Campbell,    Allan    R.,    222, 

223. 
Thomas,     174,     221, 

283,  291,   293. 

W.  W.,  249;  Annals 


of  Try  on  County,  249. 

Campbell  -  Bannerman,  Sir 
H.,  12S. 

Campbell's  Specimens,  291. 

Canning,  George,   104. 

Carlyle,  Jane  Welsh,  143,  169, 
170,  216,  217. 

Thomas,  11,  142,  143, 

164, 167-171, 208,  212-218, 
220, 230, 231, 254, 256, 296, 
309;  Frederick  the  Great, 
170  ;  French  Revolution,- 
169,  170;  Note-Books,  142, 
167,    254;    Reminiscences, 

254. 
Carnegie,  Andrew,   183. 
Carter,  James  C,   125. 
"Caste,"   263. 
Castle  of  Otranto,  The,  296. 
Caxton  Club,  309. 
Caxtons,  32,  47. 
Cecil  Dreeme,   103. 
Century  Dictionary,  237,276, 

277. 
Magazine,    135,   170, 

305- 
Cervantes,  98. 
Chalmers,  George,  288. 
Chamberlain,  Joseph,  128. 
Charles  I.,  228 

II.,  160 

Charles  OM alley,  40. 
Chase,  S.   P.,   151. 
Chaucer,   248. 
Chimmie  Fadden,   212. 
Choate,  Joseph  H.,  124,  125. 


Choate,  Rufus,  188. 

Chopin,    104. 

Christmas    Carol,    100,    loi, 

138. 
Cibber,  Colley,   273. 
Cicero,   68,   239. 
Clarke's  Authentic  Memoirs, 

269, 270. 
Clay,  Henry,   132,   286. 
Clemens,    Samuel    L.,     117- 

120. 
Cleveland,  Grover,  237,  238. 
Club  Bindery,   63,   201. 
Club  Cor)ter,  In  A,  214. 

of  One,  A,  214. 

Cobbett,  William,   51. 
Cobden-Sanderson,  45. 
Cole,  Hamilton,  85. 
Coleman,  William,  85. 
Coleraine,  Lord,  159,  160. 
Coleridge,  S.  T.,  27,  71,  72, 

124,   184,   186. 
Collins,  Wilkie,  98,  224. 
William,  140. 


Colonel    Carter,   of    Carters- 

ville,  103. 
Com  pleat  Angler,  The,  63. 
Comte,  A.,    143,   206. 
"  Concerning    the   Honor    of 

Books,"   310. 
"Condensed  Novels,"  115. 
Congreve,  William,  262-264. 
Constable,    168. 
Contingent    Remahiders,    78, 

80. 
Conwell,  Clarke,  304. 
Cooper,  J.  Fenimore,  102  ,107, 

1 13—120. 

Thompson,  197. 


Corelli,  Marie,  244. 
Cornhill  Magazine,  31,   260. 
Cornwall,  Barry,  v. 
Cottle,  Joseph,  72. 
Course  of  Time,  The,  95. 
Courtney,  Leonard,  216. 
Cowley,  Abraham,  292,  293. 
Cowper,  William,    208,    293, 
294. 


2>T-?> 


Index 


wmd   GSmsSf     TTy'Dectj  snd  Tacissn.  i6i. 

Uaa  «f,  afe.  De  JtesAf^.  JfgT>.  273. 

:.-     _  !  De  Stael.  Madarcie.  122. 

77-  »'.     -     ifi  ^i.'fr.if-L     T.    F..      25.     306, 

Cri':;-:     r     "----    .i_^  17.         :ci.    116.     121.     155,     156, 

:-  i:~.     171.     aoS— 210.     2x0. 

C'          J                                   .  -            :': 

€'  : 
t  -            -           ;    _ 
CrorcfCt.  is.  xj..  ii: 

C- tT.   2:2.  l.r 


-       -57.  ^5-  306- 

Li?r^.  2-9. 


Ciir-      .     T.       ^-.   X2; 


Ife>r 


r^  PitrU^.  TTu.  v. 


?^      -     Z      156. 


-   ^_-J7-  253- 
'-  ■   -57- 

''■■  -"""-' =!m    108,  no. 


:04- 


-3^ 

;.;_  : 

3O' 

37- 

-    299- 

314 


Index 


EKot.  George,  gS.  164.  317. 
224 

John.  3cS. 

EUstwata^ra,   255. 
Elston  Press.    ;c4. 
Elton.  Charies  and  itarv.  29. 
Elzevirs.  2S.  67—60. 
Emtbargj.  Tkg.  65.  66. 
Emerson.    R.    W.,    53.    217. 

244.   2S3.   2Q6.  2Qg. 
Emmet.  T.  A-.  203.  204. 
E  ficycL^  C'jsd  ij.  A  nurrLa  Ka.zcz. 

Britann.-ic.J.  259. 

Ekz  :-  2n  Era.   Tiw.   144. 
■■Endymioii,"  12S.  295.  304. 
EmynUs  of  Bxks.  46. 
Engiisk  Bock-C^L^ctcrs.  29. 
English.  Thomas  Ehmn,  19. 
Essay  j^  Bums.  4S.  49. 
Essex  Hc-:ise  Press,  303.  304.- 
'"  Evangeline.""   21. 
Evartsr  W.  II..  103. 
Etv  cf  St.  A^nes.  Tke.  304. 
Evelina.  q6.  2q6. 
Everett.  Edward.   235. 
Everett's  rt"aj^:»i^-^.  202. 
""Esctirsion.  The."'   295. 
Extra -illustrated  bocks 

(Browne").  200. 

"Fable  for  Crlti«::s."   2co. 
Famaby.  Thomas.  46. 
Feame.  Charles.   7S-S0. 
Fdix  Hji:.  224- 
Felton.  C.  C   146. 
Fenton.  E..  291. 
Ferriar.  John.  67. 
'"Fesr-is."   10. 
Field.  Eugene.  47. 
Fielding.  Henry.  gS. 
Firmin-IDidot.  A..  55. 
Fiske.  John.   1S5. 
Fitzclarence,  Lord  A..  267. 
Fitzgerald.  Percy.  52. 
Flau'fert.  G..  230. 
Fletcher.  John.  310. 

"Wiiliani  Younger.  20. 

Florence.  "W".   T  .   2-0.. 


Florio.   Tohn.  313. 
Flower.  "R.  P.,  74- 
Ford.  P.   L..   103.  2<5S. 
Forster.  John.  20S. 
ForstQ-'s  Dickens.  20S.  209- 
Fortescue.  John.  95. 
Fcitrierus  di  Scapin.  Lis,  1 2. 
Fox.  Cr:-'--    "imes.   2SS. 
Francr:  177.  391. 

Francis  ,  _  ..-  .   .~_-  York.  194, 

10^.    IQQ. 

Franklin.  Benjamin,   1C9. 
rrederick  the  Great,   zzz. 
rreeman.  E.  A..   iS;. 
French,  F.  "WT..  S4-  " 
Freneau,   Philip.  75.  j6. 
.  Fritn's   A'jkzciyic^rapky .    15S. 

159- 
" Frogs,  The."  272. 
Fronde.  J.  A.  164-  167,  id«, 

216.   2rS.   230. 
Frcude's  Lifi  cf  CariyU.  167. 

169;  RHJsi^ns■s:itkCariyL^. 

217. 
Fuller.  Thomas.   241. 
Fust  and  Schcrer   Psalters. 

2S. 


Gardine-.  S.  R..  167. 
Gamett.  Richard.  45. 
Garrick,   David.   170. 
Gay.  John,  no. 
Gay's  rJcUs.   rii. 
Ge:Tse  III..  ;^.  202.  36 
^  IV..  iVq. 


Gibbon.  Edward.  33. 17S 

1S4- 
GrDbs.  James,    193. 
Gilbert,  John.  274.  275. 
W.  5-.  1S4.  243. 


-iSi. 


Gladstone. W.  E..  2S.1S7 

Glanvill.  Joseph.  2  5o- 
Gloucester.  Fhikeoi.  17S 
Godkin.  E.  L..  S5. 
Godwin.  Parke.  66.  67. 
Goethe,  122.  rS4- 
Goldsmith.   Oliver.   33. 
iSc- 


^44- 

.  210. 

.179- 


169. 


;i> 


Index 


Goodnow,  F.  J.,  59. 
Gosse,    Edmund,    237,    240, 

265. 
Gossip  About  Book-Collecting, 

302. 
Gould,  Jay,   250;    Delaware 

County,  250. 
Gowans,  William,  52,  282. 
Grammont,  Count,   160. 
Grammont's  Memoirs,  160. 
Grange,  John,  98. 
Granger,    James,    192,    195- 

197,  201. 
Gray,  Horace,   18. 

Thomas,    169,     172, 

173-177.   198. 
Gray's  "  Elegy,"  174. 
Great  Book-Collectors,  29. 
Greeley,  Horace,   181. 
Green  Bag,   The,  222. 
Green,   J.   R.,   98,   184,   185, 

187. 
Groher,  86,  248. 

Club, 56, 70, 106, 167, 

226,  309. 

Groliers,  44. 
Grote,  George,   180. 
Growoll's     American     Book 

Clubs,   289,  308. 
Guerrara,  Antonio  de,  239. 
Gustavus  Adolphus,   147. 
Guyot,  Arnold,   135. 

Hague,  James  D.,   170. 
Haliburton,  T.   C,   146,  149. 
Hall,  A.  Oakey,  60. 

Basil,  135. 

Hamerton,  P.  G.,  42,  60,  221, 

231- 
Hamilton,  Anthony,   160. 
"Hamilton,    Single-Speech," 

19. 
"  Hamlet,"  2i3<  274. 
Hammond,  James,   291. 
Hans  Breitmann,    153. 
Harleian     MSS.,   57. 
Harper  &  Brothers,  195. 
Harper's  Magazine,   21,   135. 


Harrison,  Anna,  287. 
Benjamin,  238,  286- 


Frederic,  49,  141. 
John  Scott,  287. 
William  Henry,  285- 


Harry  Lorrequer,  40. 
Hart,  Albert  Bushnell,  93. 
Harte,  Bret,  115,  279. 
Harvey.  George,   130,   195. 
Hawthorne,  Julian,   118. 
Nathaniel,  56,  loi. 


Hay,  John,  22,  91,   151. 
Hayes,  R.  B.,   139. 
Hayley  William,  296. 
Hazlitt,  Sarah,  254,  255. 

William,     165,     166, 


216,  254,  255,  261. 

William  Carew,  88. 


Hazlitt's    Dramatic    Essays, 

268. 
"Heathen  Chinee,  The,"  22. 
"  Heauton  -  Timoroumenos," 

272. 
Heber,  Richard,  34,  41,  42, 

99. 
Heenan,  John  C,   156. 
Henley,  W.  E.,  123,  263 
Hennell,  Sarah,   217. 
Her  Dearest  Foe,  223. 
Herbert,  George,  98. 
Herkimer  County,  History  of, 

249. 
Hesiod,   118. 
Heywood,  John,  98. 
Hill,  George    Birkbeck,  169, 

231. 
History  of  Charles  the  Fifth, 

169. 
Hofifman,  Eugene  A.,  76. 

John  T.,  59,  60,  103. 


Hohenlinden,  221. 
Holland,  George,   275. 
Holland's  Memorial,   275. 
Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell,  63, 

121,    146,   148. 
Homer  of  the  Nerli,  28. 


316 


Index 


Hood,  Thomas,  256,  257. 
Hoole,   Tohn,  296. 
Hough,"  F.  B.,  289. 
How   to   Fail   in   Literature, 

240. 

to  Form  a  Library,  34. 

Howells,    W.    D.,    102,    169, 

224,  225. 
Howells's  L^«^r5,  121. 
"Hudibras,"   16. 
Hugo,  Victor,   104,  309. 
Humphreys,    A.    L.,    26-28, 

251. 
Himt,  Leigh,  29,  96,  129,  212, 

214;    Autobiography,    213, 

214. 
Hutton,  Laurence,  102,  275. 
Huxley,  T.  H.,   290. 
Hypnerotomachia,  28. 

Ibsen,  H.,  300. 
"In  Memoriam,"  295. 
Inchbald,  Elizabeth,  262. 
Index  Rheioricus,  46. 
Lnfelicia ,   156-158. 
Ingersoll,  R.  G.,   199. 
International  Monthly,  93. 
Ireland,  A.,  244. 
Irving,  Sir  Henry,   156. 
Washington,  102, 148, 

297. 
Irving's  Life  of  Washington, 

194,   198. 
Irwin  Library,  44. 
Isabella,  304. 

Jackson,  Andrew,  127,  137. 

Life  of,  51,  202. 

Jaeger,  B.,  285,  286. 
James,  Henry,  121. 
Jefferson,  Joseph,  170,  274. 

Thomas,  66,  67,  75. 

Jeffrey,  Francis,  8,  168. 
Jerdan,  William,    173. 
Jesuit  Relations,  45. 
Joannes,  Count,   16. 
"  John  Gilpin,"  293. 
Johnson,  Marmaduke,  308. 


Johnson,  Samuel,  i^;^,  95,  97, 

99,  loi,  104,  169,  232,  291. 

Johnson's     Dictionary,     236, 

237- 

New  Universal  Cyclo- 


pcedia,  292. 
Johnston,  Alexander,  190. 
Jonson,   Ben,    no. 
Jordan,  Mrs.  D.,  266,  267,  270; 

Life  of,  266,  267. 
Journal,   The,   76. 
Jowett,  Professor,   142, 
Judge,    147. 

"Jumping  Frog,  The,"  118. 
"Junius,  Letters  of,"  271. 

Karge,  Joseph,  23. 
Kearsley,  G.,   174. 
Keats,  John,  128-130,  304. 
Keener,  W.  A.,  80. 
Kehania,  Curse  of,   11. 
Kelmscott  Press,  44,  303. 
Kemble,  John,    170. 
Kennedy,  John  S.,  203. 
Kerr,   Orpheus  C,    153-156, 

166. 
Key,  Francis  Scott,  137,  138. 
Kipling,    Rudyard,   40,    183, 

210,   279,   300. 
Klopstock,  F.  G.,  44. 
Knickerbocker  Magazine,  161. 
Knight,  Charles,  258. 
Joseph,   267. 


L'Abbe  Constantin,   143. 
Lamb,    Charles,    64,    71-73, 
208,  253-257,  264. 

Mary,  72,  253-255. 


Lamb's  Poetry  for  Children, 

253- 
Lamia,   304. 
Lang,  Andrew,  25,  31,  32,  46, 

55,  68,   178,  179,  240,  241, 

247.   3°3- 
Langel,  Auguste,  53. 
Lanigan,  George  T.,  149. 
Last   of  the  Mohicans,    The, 

114. 


317 


Index 


Lawlor.  Francis.  2S2. 

Lawyers  and  Literature,  iii. 

Lee  ai  Appomattox,  145. 

Lefanu,    T-.  70. 

Letterts  Library,  44.. 

Legal  Faceii^:^.   17. 

Le  Gallienne,  Richard,  117. 

Le  Grice,  C.  V.,  2!;6. 

Leland.  C.  G.,   148. 

Lenox,  James,  25.  41,  50,  52. 

Lessing.  G.  E.,  44. 

Letters  from  the  Bodleian  Li- 
brary, 45. 

Lettres  a  une  Inconnue,  140. 

Lever,  Cliarles.  40. 

Lewis.  Monk.   104. 

Libbey.  Laura  Jean,  113. 

Libraries  and  Founders  of  Li- 
braries. 57. 

Library,  The  (Lang),  46,  55. 

Lieber,  Francis,  292. 

Lilly,   19S. 

Lincoln.  Abraham.  150-152, 
183.  23S:  Life  of .  152. 

Lind,  Jenny.  273. 

Lionel  Lincoln,  117. 

Literary  History  of  America, 
161. 

Literature  of  American  His- 
tory, 249. 

of  the  Georgian  Era, 

Lives  oj  the  Poets.   291. 
Livingston.  L.  S..  84. 

William.  287. 

Lloyd.  Charles.  71-73. 
Locker-Lampson.  F.,  5,  6.  2^, 

125,   193. 
Lockhart.  J.  G.,   127. 
London  Titnes,  245. 
Longfellow.  H.  W.,  55.  242. 
Lortic,  45.   100. 
Lcrois  XIV.,   189. 
Lotmsbury,  T.  EL,  117. 
Lowe.  Robert,  271. 
Lowell.  J.  R.,  44,  55,  106, 121, 

148.  172.  296,  299. 
Lowndes,  W.  T.,  38. 


Ltiard,  H.  R.,  306. 
Lyly,  John.  56,  98,  239. 

Macatday.  T.  B..  11,  93,  96, 

104,    121,  J23,    230,    231, 

296.  298.  299. 
Mackdy.  Charles.  244,  245. 
Macmillan  &;  Co..  233. 
Madison.  James.  75,  284. 
Maeterlinck.  M..  300. 
Mahon.  Lord,   1S7. 
Mallarme.  89. 
J/an  and  Wife.  224. 
Mann.  Sir  Horace.  296. 
Mansfield,  Howard,  282. 
Marguerite  de  Xavarre,  94. 
Mariage  Force,  Le,   160. 
Marie,  Peter,  277. 
Mario.  273. 

Marlborough,  Duke  of,  29. 
Marlowe.  Christopher,  98. 
^fartnion,  34,   168. 
ilariin  Chuzzleu.'it,  loi,  299. 
Martin.  Sir  Theodore,   129. 
Martineau.  Harriet,  215. 
Marshall.  John,  18. 
Mason.  WilHam,  296. 
Masson.  257. 
Mather.  Cotton.  84. 
Matthews,  WiUiam,  45,  54. 
Maurice,  A.  B.,   102. 
Maurice  Tiernay,  40. 
Maxwell  Sale  100. 
Mayo,  Frank.   274. 
McCarthy,  Justin,   141. 
McClure's  Sfagazine,  305. 
McKee,   Thomas  J.,   65,   S^, 

100. 
McKinley,  William.  238. 
McMaster,    J.   B..    137,    188, 

1S9.  284.  285. 
McMaster's  History,  1 3  7 .  2  84. 
Melba.  XeUie,  273. 
Menander.  11. 
Mendelssohn,   226. 
Menken.    Ada    Isaacs,    156- 

158- 
Menmee,  Pros|>er,  140. 


318 


Index 


Merivale,  Charles,   i8o. 
Mermet,  Bollioud.  35,  86. 
Mickle,  W.  J.,  296. 
Mile?,   Nelson  A.,   128. 
Mill,  J,  S.,   210. 
Milton,  John,  182,  240,  258, 

292,  293. 
Minto,  Walter,  96,   185. 
Mitchell,     Donald    G.,     107, 

108,  132,  134,  297. 
Mitford,  Rev.  John,  175. 
Moliere,  11,  12,  122,  160. 
Montaigne,  39,  121,  218,  241, 

299. 
Monthly  Anthology.  65. 
Moore,  Benjamin,  77. 

Clement  C,  76-78. 

T^M..   273. 

Thomas,  159,  211. 

Moore's  Life  and  Letters,  159. 
Morange,   H.  H.,   16. 
"  Morituri  Salutamus,"  242. 
Morris,  George  P.,   113. 

Sir  Lewis.   294. 

William,  303. 

Mtmster,  Earl  of,  267. 
Murfree,  Miss.   225. 
Mtirray,  John,  129,  169. 
Murton,  Charles.   174. 
Musical  Olio,   139. 

My  Confidences,  ^^. 
My  Study  Wi}idows.  172. 
Myers,  F.  W.  H.,  21. 
Mysteries  of  Udolpfw,  96,  296. 

Napoleon,  33,   147. 

Ill  ,   104. 

Nasbx,    Petroleum  V.,    151, 

212. 
Nasby  Papers,   153. 
Nast,  Thomas,   151. 
Nelson,  Life  of.   1S6. 
Nerli,    Bernardo   and   Nerio, 

28. 
New  York  Mirror,   132. 

Tinies,  129. 

Newbiorg  Addresses,  284. 
Neu'comes,   Tlie,  87. 


Newell,  Robert  H.,  149,  153- 

Nicolay,  John  G.,   151. 
"Night     Before     Christmas, 

The,"   77. 
Niles,  George  V,  .,   17. 
A'o  Name,  224. 
No  Thoroughfare,  204. 
Noble,  Mark,   198. 
Noctes  Ambrosianae,   299. 
Nolan.  Thomas,   16,   17. 
Nordau,  Max,  21,  22. 
Nordica,  Lillian,  273. 
North  American  Revieu;,  130, 

131,   212. 
North,   Lord.   2 88. 
Norton,  Charles  Eliot,  167. 
Notes  ayid  Queries,   283. 
"  Nothing  to  Wear,"  15,  19, 

116. 
Nye,  Bill,   277. 

Official  Records  of  the  Rebel- 
lion, 45. 

Ogilvy,  Margaret,   143. 

Old  Booksellers  of  New  York, 
282,  283. 

O'SuUivan,  John  L..  132. 

Otway,  Thomas  266. 

Ouida,  158,  159,  226. 

Our  Mutual  Friend,  90. 

Paltsits,  Victor  Hugo,  76. 
Pamela,    185.   296. 
Parepa-Rosa  E..   138. 
Parker,  Sir  Gilbert,  94,  113, 

225,  300. 
Pascal's  Letters,   173. 
Pater.  Walter.  188,  233-241. 
Patmore,    P.     G.,    166,    254, 

255- 

Paul  Revere  and  His  Engrav- 
ings, 302,  303. 

Patdding.  J.   K.,   297. 

Paj-n,  James,   260. 

Pa%Ti's  Recollections,  260. 

Peacock.  Thomas  Love,  36. 

Pedant  Joue,   12. 


319 


Index 


Peg  Woffington,   226. 
Pendennis,  87. 
Pepys,   Samuel,   46,   49. 
Peter  Stirling,   103. 
Petersburg  Nowoje  Wremja, 

178. 
Phillips,  Stephen,   294. 
Philobiblon,   The,  69. 
Phoenix,  John,   148. 
Pioneers,  The,  114,   115. 
Pirates  of  Penzance,   264. 
Planche,  J.   R.,   243. 
Plantins,   68. 
Pleasures  of  Hope,   283. 
of    the    Imagination, 

173- 

of  Literature ,  178,  241. 

Poe,   Edgar  Allan,   44,    100, 

102. 
Poetical  Register,  The,  70. 
Poliphilus,   28. 
Polk,  James  K.,  286. 
Pollok.   Robert,   95. 
Pomfret,  John,   291,    292. 
Pomfret's  Choice,  291,  292. 
Pope,  Alexander,  22,  74,  75, 

160,   169,  259,  293,  296. 
Porson,   Richard,    291. 
Post,  Evening,  85. 
Precaution,    117. 
Prescott,  W.  H.,  206,  207. 
Prideaiix,  S.   T.,  45. 
Princess,   The,    126. 
Private  Library,  The,  26-28. 
Procter's  Memoirs,  254. 
Professor    at    the    Breakfast 

Table,   153. 
Prynne,  William,  44,  45. 
Publius  Syrus,   11. 
Puck,   147. 
Punch,  51. 

Quarterly  Review,  129,  130. 
Quasi-C ontracts ,  80. 

Radclifife,  Mrs.  Ann,  96. 
Ralph  Roister  Doister,    115. 
Ralstons,   The,   104. 


Randolph,  John,   128. 
Raphael,   182,     239. 
Rasselas,    104,    169. 
"  Raven,  The,"  131,  132,  134. 
Rawlinson,  Thomas,  41,  42. 
Reade,  Charles,  156,  179,  210, 

211,   226. 
Recollections  of  James  Lenox, 

51- 
Rees,  J.   Rogers,  217. 
Rejected  Addresses,   154. 

National  Hymns,  154- 


156. 

Rembrandt,   182. 
Renouald,   30. 
Repplier,  Agnes,  96,  120. 
Reynolds,  Sir  Joshua,  97,  231. 
Rhodes,  James  Ford,  185. 
Richard  II.,  10 1. 
Richardson,  Samuel,  98. 
Richmond,  George  H.,  198. 
Richter,  Jean  Paul,  11,  128. 
Right  of  Way,  The,  225. 
Right  Way  to  Heaven,  64. 
Riker's  Harlem,  249. 
Ring  and  the  Book,  The,  218. 
Riviere,   R.,   45. 
Robertson,  T.   W.,   263. 
William,   169. 


Robinson,  Henry  Crabbe,  184. 
Rochefoucauld,   219,   261. 
Roget's  Thesaurus,   237. 
Romance   of  Book-Collecting, 

The,  36. 
Roosevelt,  Theodore,   128. 
"  Rosedale,"  272. 
Rossetti,  D.  G.,  21. 
Rostand,  E.,   12. 
Roundabout  Papers,  20,  119, 

299. 
Rousseau,  J.   J.,    176,  177. 
Roxburghe,     Duke    of,     29, 

306,  307. 
Ruskin,  John,  216,  231. 
Russell,  A.  P.,  214. 

Sabin,  Joseph,  282. 
Sala,  G.  A.,   104,   151. 


320 


Index 


"Sam  Slick,"   146,   212. 
Sand,  George,   266. 
Sanderson's  Lives,  203. 
Sargent,  J.  S.,   124. 
Sch6rer,   Edmond,    122. 
"  School  for  Scandal,"    263, 

295- 
Schopenhauer,  A.,   165,  205. 
Schwab,  C.  M.,   183. 
Scollard,  Clinton,  83. 
Scott,    Sir  Walter,    34,    105, 

116,    119,    121,    168,    211, 

212,   260. 

Winfield,   162,   163. 

Scribner's  Magazine,   135. 
Seneca,  34,  64. 
Sergeant,  John,   145. 
Sewall,  Henry,   74. 
Seward,  William  H.,  9. 
Shakespeare,  10,  11,  28,  43, 

94,  98,  100,  179,  180,  240, 

259,  271,   293. 
Shaw,  H.  W.,  149,  150. 
Shaylor,  Joseph,   178. 
"  She  Stoops    to    Conquer,'' 

295- 
Shelley,  P.  B.,   124,   125. 
Shelton,  F.  W.,   161. 
Sheridan,   R.  B.,   263. 
Short  History  of  the  English 

People,   185. 
Siddons,  Sarah,  268. 
Sidney,   Sir  Philip,   56. 
Slater,  J.   H.,  35,   195. 
Smith,  F.  Hopkmson,  226. 
George  D.,   198. 

Horace,   169. 

James    and    Horace, 


154- 


Joshua  Hett,  70. 


Smollett,  Tobias,  98. 
Sotheby,  251. 
Sotheran,  H.,   198. 
Southerne,  Thomas,  266. 
Southey,  C.  C,  92. 

Robert,   11,  27,    92- 

94,  125,  186,  207,  290,  291. 
Southey 's  Specimens,  291. 


Sparrowgrass    Papers,     The, 

161,  162. 
Spencer,  Earl,   29,  30,  307. 
Spenser,  Edmund,  293. 
Sprague,  Charles,  20. 
Sprat,  Thomas,   291. 
Spy,   The,   117. 
Stanley,  A.   P.,   184. 
Stanton,  E.  M.,   151. 
"Star  -  Spangled         Banner, 

The,"    137-140. 
Stedman's  Poets  of  America, 

200,   201. 
Stephen,  Sir  Leslie,  166,  179, 

181. 
Stevens,  Henry,  41,   50,  52. 
Stevenson,  R.  L.,   122,  123. 
Stewart,  A.  T.,  103. 
Stirling,  William,  41. 
Stone,  Miss,  88. 
Street,  G.  S.,  263. 
Stubbs,  WiUiam,   185. 
Sullivan,   Sir  Arthur,   243. 
Sumner,  Charles,   126. 
W.  G.,   127. 


Swedenborg,  E.,   102. 
Swift,  Jonathan,  75,   163. 
Swift's  Life  and  Works,  168. 
Swinburne,  A.  C,   156,  294. 
Symmes,  John   Cleves,    287, 


Taine,  H.,  264. 

Taine's    English    Literature, 

264. 
Tales  of  the  Hall,   169. 
Talfourd,  Sir  T.  N.,  72. 
Tamerlane,  44,   100. 
Task,   The,  294. 
Ten  Thousand  a   Year,  222, 

223,    224. 
Tennyson,  Lord,  32,  2^,  126, 

143. 171- 
Terence,   272. 
Temina,  Milka,  273. 
Terry,   Ellen,   211. 
Thackeray,  W.  M.,  87,  98,  99, 

100, 118, 121, 164, 263, 305. 


321 


Index 


Thalaba,  290. 
T hales,  219. 
Themistocles,   309. 
Theocritus,   118. 
Thierry,   206. 
Thomas  Aquinas,   257. 
Thompson,       Chief  -  Justice, 


Mortimer,   115. 
Peronet,    179. 


Thompson-Seton,  E.,  205. 

Thomson,  James,    iii. 

Thomson's /IwiJimw,  iii. 

Thoreau,   H.  D.,   102. 

Thucydid.es,   177. 

Tilden,  Samuel  J.,   151. 

Tocqueville,   176. 

Tom  Burke,  40. 

Tooke,  John  Home,  v. 

Tout,  45. 

"Traveller,  The,"   169. 

Travis,  Archdeacon,  291. 

Tredwell,  D.  M.,   192. 

Trent,   200. 

Trevelyan's  Macaulay,  231. 

Trollope,   Mrs.,    135. 

True  andRoyall  Historie,  etc., 

73- 
Tupper,   M.   F.,   166. 
Twain,   Mark,   1 17-120,   148, 

210,   278. 
Twopenny,  William,  251. 

Vale  Press,  303. 

Van  Brugh,  Sir  John,   264. 

der   Dort,   Abraham, 

57- 
Vamty  of  Dogmatizing,   289. 

"  Vathek,"  7,7,. 

Vennard,   Richard,   64. 

Verlaine,   Paul,   89. 

"Veteran,  The,"   272. 

Vicar      of     Wakefield,      169, 

251- 
Victoria,  Queen,   100. 
Virginians,   The,  87. 
Voltaire,   10,   102. 
Von  Hoist,  H.,  189,  190. 


Wagner,  Richard,  124. 
Wakefield,  Gilbert,   174. 
Wallack,  Lester,  271,  272. 
Wallack's    Memories,     271- 

274. 
Waller,  Edmund,  293. 
Walpole,    Horace,    11,    174, 

175,    198,    296. 
Walsh,  William,  291. 
Walton,  Izaak,  43. 
Ward,  Aaron,   54. 
Artemus,    115,    146, 

148,  150,  153,  212,  280. 
Mrs.  Humphry,  121. 


Warren,  Samuel,  222-224. 
Warton,  Thomas.  96. 
Washington,     George,     109, 
183.       , 

The  True  George,  268. 


Watson,   William,   294. 
Waverley  Magazine,  44. 
Weber  and  Fields,  273. 
Wegelin,  Oscar,   134. 
Weir,   R.   W.,   163. 
Welford,  Francis,   14. 
Wendell,   Barrett,   161. 
Wesley,  Life  of,  186. 
Westchester    County,   History 

of,  249. 
Wheatley,  H.   B.,  34. 
Wheeler,  F.,   198. 
Whipple,  E.  P.,   134. 
Whitaker,   141. 
White,  R.  G.,  68. 
Whitlegge,  J.   H.,   17. 
Whitman,   Walt,   157. 
Whittier,  J.   G.,   118,   134. 
Wieland,   113. 
Wilde,  Oscar,   117. 
Wiley  &  Putnam,  132. 
Wilkinson,  James,   269. 
Wilks,   Robert,   274. 
Willems's  Les  Elzevier,  68. 
William  IV.,   267,   270. 
Williams,   Elisha,    15. 
Willis,  Joseph,    198. 
N.  P.,  113,  125,  155, 


297. 


322 


Index 


Willock,  J.,   17. 

Wilson,  Woodrow,  244,  284, 

285. 
Wilson's  History,  55,  284,  285. 
Winter,  John  Strange,  228. 
Winthrop,   Theodore,    103. 
Wirt,  WiUiam,   18. 
Wise,  Henry  A.,  145. 
J.  S.,  144,^  US- 
Wood,  Anthony  a,  44. 
Woodberry,  G.   E.,   21,    100. 
Woodward,  John,  306. 
Wordsworth,    William,    207, 

210,  242,  296. 


World,   The,  76. 
Wotton,  Sir  Henry,  125. 
Wren,  Sir  Christopher,  zi. 
Wright's  Farriery,  262. 
Writers  and  Readers,  169. 
Wycherley,  William,  264. 

Yankee  Drolleries,  151,  152. 
Yates,   Raymond,   258. 
York,  Duke  of,  269,  270. 

Zaehnsdorf,       Joseph,       45, 

252. 
Zangwill,  I.,   10. 


THE    END 


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